


dancing in a snow globe

by ataharcot



Category: High School Musical: The Musical: The Series (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Ice Dancing, Inspired by Scott Moir and Tessa Virtue, Jealousy, Olympics, Pining, Through the Years, figure skating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 39,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27744574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ataharcot/pseuds/ataharcot
Summary: Nini Salazar-Roberts and Ricky Bowen have won 3 Olympics and 8 Worlds together as best friends, frenemies, and partners.
Relationships: Ricky Bowen/Nini Salazar-Roberts
Comments: 20
Kudos: 97





	1. short dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strictlysaccharine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strictlysaccharine/gifts).



> hi! i'm back not to update the two fics i haven't updated since the summer, but to post a new three act story because. reasons. this fic is dedicated to the lovely fabs as a christmas gift to her after we had a breakdown over canadian ice dance duo tessa virtue and scott moir. today marks her last final of 2020, after which she is free! 
> 
> this is edited by my wonderful co-author for my superhero fic, sanjana. you can check out her works under [vellichore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vellichore/pseuds/vellichore)!
> 
> notes:  
> \- based off ice dancers virtuemoir. if you don't know who they are, i highly suggest looking them up and watching all of their routines. you won't regret it.  
> \- the title is from ms taylor's _you are in love_ , and i got that from a virtuemoir edit fabs sent me [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lUXa3tQLkI4). also, miss swift absolutely killed me and the collective priv tl with evermore. like seriously, wow.  
> \- ricky and nini are canadians because tessa and scott are canadians and i prefer that instead.  
> \- ricky is two years older than nini  
> \- i used to figure skate, but i didn't do ice dance. therefore, my knowledge of skating is found by watching virtuemoir's performances or research  
> \- let’s give credit where credit is due. this is not the first skating fic in the rini fandom! sabrina, aka [alovelylilt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alovelylilt/pseuds/alovelylilt), has a fantastic story called [break the ice (don't break my heart)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24292360), otherwise known as hockey fic. please check it out!
> 
> i have selected songs that represent ricky and nini's journey throughout the story (mostly out of pure boredom haha). these songs reflect different emotions and points throughout the fic that i've probably listened to while writing. you can get the playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/44JVxSnJVygMlwPtC9phTw?si=60MBkkGyRSaLH0_2TjzMhQ). i highly recommend checking it out and listening to it when reading!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nina Salazar-Roberts is not a figure skater. She is a ballerina with the knobby knees of an eight year old and scrapes on her calves, the product of one too many falls, but nimble limbs and graceful feet. She performs jetés and pirouettes, gliding across the shiny hardwood floors as if it’s her ice. Her movements flow like a gentle stream, each step measured and executed to perfection._
> 
> _She is not a figure skater, but a ballerina. That does not mean she can’t sometimes think of more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the **short dance** is the first dance performed in an ice dance competition. it's composed of two parts: the pattern dance, formerly known as the compulsory dance, which could be placed in any part of the short dance and is given a certain pattern that must be incorporated, and the creative section, which takes up the majority of the dance. the pattern dance is assigned a different one each season.

She likes to watch the dancers in the rink, who spin and twist and leap like one of the snowflakes in the snow globes her mom gave her for Christmas last year. She loves the way the dancers pull apart from one another, following each other’s movements like two sides of the same coin, until the illusion breaks, and the female leaps into her partner’s arms. 

He never fails to catch her.

Nina Salazar-Roberts is not a figure skater. She is a ballerina with the knobby knees of an eight year old and scrapes on her calves, the product of one too many falls, but nimble limbs and graceful feet. She performs jetés and pirouettes, gliding across the shiny hardwood floors as if it’s her ice. Her movements flow like a gentle stream, each step measured and executed to perfection.

She is not a figure skater, but a ballerina. That does not mean she can’t sometimes think of _more_. 

It’s nearing Christmastime when Momma D asks her if she would like to try figure skating. Ilderton Arena is chilly, and the tip of her nose has become red, but Nina is not cold. She has come back from ballet to watch the skaters—this time, a girl who is not much older than her and a boy around the same age—struggling to perform a lift. The lift looks painful—the boy almost drops the girl, but at the last minute, he clutches her waist tighter, and the female skater successfully dismounts. 

When asked the question, she blinks once, then twice, trying to discern the right thing to say, but she thinks about the older skaters, about the pretty snow globe sitting in her room with the dancers circling each other, never touching, and knows her answer. Skating won’t interfere with ballet—if anything it would enhance her skills, because if she could balance on ice, she could do the same in pointes.

The skates she gets for Christmas are shiny, white, and new, with a small _B_ engraved in the boot. They are not dissimilar from her points—both hard, both tight, both unyielding—and Nina can’t help but close her eyes and think about the twists, jumps, and lifts she could do in them. When she first steps on the ice in them, it feels like she’s getting ready for her solo in ballet.

And it turns out, skating is just like ballet, because she gets the concepts _fast_. The first time she lands a toe loop, she beams at her moms in the stand, and starts the backwards crossovers again into another one. Each scrape of her blades on the ice, the distinct _clink_ of the toe pick digging into the well-used ice feels familiar, like she’s been on the ice all her life.

Solo skating could be just as rewarding as ballet. Her coach, Claire, says that she would be an excellent one, and if she chose skating over ballet, she would do great in competition. But twists and jumps and drags are nothing compared to the ice dancers she sees every Sunday, the lifts and mirroring of a _partner_ , and Claire smiles. 

The next skating lesson comes with a boy.

“Nina, this is my nephew, Ricky Bowen. Ricky, this is Nina Salazar-Roberts, your new skating partner.”

Making a move to shake his hand, Nina pauses when Ricky’s mouth twists into somewhat of a frown. “Aunt _Claire_ ,” he says, turning towards their coach, “you know I’ve been playing hockey! I don’t have time to _figure skate_ as well, and the guys—”

“You can do both,” Claire tells him firmly. “Nina skates and does ballet, and she’s _great_ with it. Your mom said that you would be okay with it, and this will help you with being a _better_ hockey player.”

Personally, Nina is not a big fan of hockey players and all, but the little town of Ilderton, Ontario, tucked away north of London, is famously small. Anyone knows everyone—unless you’re a rare tourist—and Nina really can’t escape a kid her age because chances are, she would probably run into them at school. Ricky is probably a few years older than her, seeing as she has never met him before today.

“But Aunt _Claire_ —” he drags their new coach’s name out in an immature, totally hockey player way, “—figure skating isn’t a sport. The guys on my team will be _so gross about it_.”

Nina wrinkles her nose. Her best experience with a hockey player was when a boy in her class who was apparently _the best ever at hockey_ , _triple A_ or whatever, told her that ballet was _not_ , in fact, a sport, and that she should pick up a stick or kick a ball or play a _real sport_ to better use her feet. She then waited for him to get up, then promptly stuck out her _proudly ballet_ foot and tripped this manly, triple A hockey boy.

If Nina was in Claire’s place, she would be at the end of her rope—niceties be damned—but her coach betrays none of that sort, only patiently stating, “It’s ice dancing, Ricky, not figure skating, and this is nonnegotiable, sorry. You could just tell the guys to shut up.” Her smile is gentle, a little apologetic, and for not the first time, Nina thinks that the woman is a saint.

Ricky looks like he’s about to protest again, but his shoulders slump. His frown softens into a line—not much better, but it’s still progress and Nina isn’t sure if she wants to count it as a win—and he sticks his hand out. It’s reluctant, certainly not the way any of her fellow dancers would have done it, but it was acceptable—you know, for a hockey boy, so she shakes it. 

“Nice to meet you Nina.” He gives her a small smile, before opening his mouth again, then closing it. A beat later, he adds, “Can I call you Nini? Nina just sounds a little snobby, no offense.”

And yes, Nina does take a bit of offense, it being her _name_ and all, but he’s her new partner and a _hockey boy being decent to her_ , so she’ll take what she can get. Ricky seems to notice her apprehension, and tacks more on his previous statement, more so stumbling it out in a pathetic but funny way to save face. “It’s still a really pretty name, and if you really like it, it’s totally fine, I shouldn’t have said that. I like nicknames though—my name is actually Richard, but I asked everyone to call me Ricky because Richard sounds like the name of a really jerky grandpa, and my best friend’s name is Big Red—”

“It’s fine,” she cuts him off, because although she finds it absolutely _hilarious_ to see him stumble over his words, she can’t help but feel a little bad for the hapless boy in front of her. “It’s kind of pretty, because names that end with an _e_ sound cooler.”

He beams. “Cool, cool, cool. I’m nine, by the way. How old are you?”

Ah. So he _is_ two years older than her. She could work with that. “I’m seven.”

She has to give him props for his semi-successful poker face—he really couldn’t be a ballerina even if he tried his hardest—but the boy really couldn’t hide his surprise. But she’s already decided that _yes,_ he will do, and no, she’s not totally in love with him or anything (even though he’s the cutest boy she’s ever seen in her life, and that includes the really hot guy from that show Momma C loves) so she’ll tolerate him. 

She hopes (knows) that her smile back to him is just as bright, and when Claire instructs them to hold hands—for the skating—neither of them protest.

That’s how it begins.

* * *

When she goes home that night, her Lola is sitting by the fireplace, reading a book. Lola is aging, with midnight black hair starting to streak with silver (like the stars) and crinkles around her soft eyes: her favourite person in the world.

“My Nina, how was your day?” Lola’s voice is always warm, like the flicker of heat from a campfire or the slow drip of honey from a spoon. She always calls Nina _“my Nina”_ , something that makes her feel all fuzzy because her Lola is her favourite person in the whole entire world. “Did you have fun skating today?”

She nods her head enthusiastically, and after carefully hanging her coat on the hook and skating bag neatly in the closet, she takes a seat beside Lola on the coach. “Yes, skating was really cool.” She thinks about the boy with messy curls, brown eyes and the widest grin—the _hockey_ boy with a smile that could light a thousand light bulbs that is going to be her skating _partner_. “Miss Claire gave me a partner today. His name is Ricky and he’s nine.”

“Ah.” Lola sets her book down, folding her hands neatly in her lap as she looks at Nina with soft eyes. Whenever she talks, Lola always listens, and it makes her feel important. Lola always makes her feel important. “How do you feel about it?”

She shrugs. “He seems nice,” she starts, thinking about the way he rambles when he’s nervous and talks himself into a stump, “and kind of funny, but he plays _hockey_.” She spits out the word _hockey_ like it was dirty—which it is. “His real name’s Richard and he thinks it’s a grandpa name, which is totally true, and his best friend’s name is _Big Red_ , which isn’t even a real name anyways.” She takes a deep breath, looking for the amusement in her grandmother’s eyes or the boredom she can get from other adults that don’t care about what she has to say when she rants, and finds none. “He wants to call me Ni- _ni_ , though, Lola, ‘cause he thinks Nina is snobby.” She scrunches her nose. “It’s not _snobby_ though, right?”

“Nina is a beautiful name, but so is Nini,” Lola says gently, humming a little bit. “It’s not my choice, my Nina, but I like it either way. What do you think?”

She sighs, thinking hard about it for a moment. “I like Nina,” she starts carefully, making sure to enunciate every syllable, “but names that end with an _e_ sounds cooler. And if Ricky’s going to be my partner, maybe I should let him—”

“My Nina, never change yourself for anyone, even if you think you want to,” Lola interrupts, “because that’s a slippery slope that many can not get up from. Do _you_ want to be called Nini?”

“I dunno,” she says. “I think it’s pretty. I like Nina but it’s a little fancy, and Ni _ni_ has _e_ sounds at the end, so it sounds cooler. Can I think about it?”

Lola smiles. “You can do whatever you want,” she replies quietly. “It’s your life. All I ask of you is to try to make sure you are happy.”

* * *

It’s been a few months since Nini—who insisted that everyone call her that after Ricky started to—and the aforementioned boy started skating together, she understands that Ricky has to try a few laps with other girls too. They’re not exclusive or anything, because Ricky is one of the best male skaters on the ice, and no, it’s _not_ because of hockey. 

She watches him take a lap with Grace (Kate? Emma? The names blur together) while she’s taking a break, and she can see him grimace as his current partner stumbles while doing a simple crossover. She’s nice enough not to snort or roll her eyes, but the girl clearly annoys _her_ partner. 

Her stomach flip flops uncomfortably as she watches them, which is _not jealousy_ thank you very much, because jealousy is for the villains in her romance books and dumb characters in stupid love triangles in those trashy soaps she watches when her moms aren’t home. But, even with that in mind, she feels like she’s one of her worn out pointes being twisted until it finally snaps whenever she sees Ricky take another girl’s hand and skates a lap with her.

It’s only a backup plan. Nini is going to ballet camp in the summer because she is going to be the best _prima_ to ever dance in the New York City Ballet—she went there with her moms one summer and absolutely _adores_ it there—but she also loves ice dancing, and even more important than that, dancing with Ricky. When she’s gone in the summer, he’ll need someone to dance with as well, and she shouldn’t even be mad about it, since this is happening _because_ she wants to be a ballerina.

There’s still a weight being lifted off her chest when he skates to her right after he finishes with _GraceKateEmma_. When she asks him how his skate was in an embarrassingly small voice, he rolls his eyes. “It’s just not the same,” he complains. “You’re actually good at skating, and we’re already partners, so why do I need to do more stupid tryouts?”

“But what about hockey?” the words fly out of her mouth faster than she can close it, and Ricky laughs. It’s clear, a little boyish, but he’s nine and she’s seven and they’ve been skating partners for two months and four days and she’s still not totally in love with him. 

“Hockey’s still _awesome_ ,” she doesn’t agree with that, “but this doesn’t mess with it. Plus, you’ve got your ballet too, and we really don’t need to have other people to skate with. You’re my only partner.”

 _You’re my only partner_ thrums against her heart like a tattoo, each syllable a beat of her heart, the very reason she’s still standing because yeah, _okay_ , maybe Nini Salazar-Roberts is totally in love with Ricky Bowen, who is nine while she is seven and his skating partner of two months and four days, but she’s his _skating partner._ That has to break like, every single rule in the official partner rule book.

It doesn’t matter though, because they do end up dating for one day and it’s probably the worst time they’ve ever skated together. They didn’t talk at _all_ and only held hands and it’s _awful_. Ricky breaks it off because his friends are teasing him about the little ballerina he skates with and now apparently dates, but it’s better anyway. Skating should always come first, because a stupid little crush will die eventually.

* * *

Nini Salazar-Roberts is a ballerina with knobby knees and feet that sometimes bleeds red into her baby pink pointes, who leaps and performs _Grande Jetés._ Jumps and loops and twirls are performed to the exact tempo of _Swan Lake_ , a graceful pointe-encased foot spinning and spinning and spinning until she is told to stop. Dark hair is pinned into a spotless bun, never a hair out of place as she pirouettes once again. 

She is also an ice dancer with graceful legs and feet that cramp in ice-white skates, who can perform three consecutive twizzles and balance on her partner’s legs without falling for the entire sequence. Glides and drops and the scrape of the ice from each turn of her blade follows her every move, in sync with Ricky while they perfect yet another sequence.

At the age of nine, Nini is a ballerina and an ice dancer and a partner. Dance is in her lifeblood, the thrum of her heart, the beat of her drum, and it’s hard to think of what she could be if she just chose _one_. She never thought she would have to choose between them so soon, since she was much more serious about ballet, but realizes that making a choice so suddenly is not the only option.

This summer, she attended the National Ballet School. It was one of the most stressful experiences of her life, the process basically being weeks of live-in auditions, all which weeding the ballerinas out until the best of the best remained. Only then would they make a decision of who would stay all year long as part of its academic program, until eventually the ballerinas would graduate and join ballet schools.

Her entire summer was spent obsessing over being the “perfect candidate”. Was her pirouette tight enough? Her leg seemed a little low on her _Jetés._ There was one moment where her bun—always flawless, _always_ —came unglued, and she spent the time after profusely apologizing to her teacher, swearing up and down that it would _never happen again._

Joining the National Ballet School was her dream since she was three and learned that she liked to move along to the music in graceful, small movements, with a little lift of her leg and softening of her hands. It was _everything_ she has built up to since, pushing and pushing to become good then better then great then the _best_ , because _that’s_ how much she’s wanted it. There was no time for smiles. No time for laughs. She hasn’t done that since she started.

So, when she’s given the letter telling her that she’s been accepted into the school of her dreams, she doesn’t jump up and down in her room and blast _Hall and Oates_. She hesitates when writing an acceptance letter, her hand trembling as her neat letter is smudged through uneven, squiggly lines. 

This choice should be _easy._ This is everything she’s worked for and _more,_ something she’s pushed and cried over and screamed about. But skating, more importantly _skating with Ricky,_ is a shiny asterisk in the corner of the page, something that makes her pause and revise everything she _thought_ she wanted versus what she actually wants.

She knows then, what she wants to do, and signs her rejection with _Nini Salazar-Roberts_ in loopy cursive pink. 

When she returns to the rink a day after, Ricky’s smile is so bright that it makes the lightbulb in the back of the rink that _always flickers_ stop, and she finds herself smiling harder than she had since the start of ballet school, and when she runs to her partner, she knows she made the right choice.

Ricky Bowen does give the best hugs, after all.

* * *

Later, she’d ask Lola if she made the right choice. As always, she smiles gently, placing a kiss on Nini’s head, and says in her quiet, soothing voice, “If this choice makes you happy, My Nini, then you have made the right choice.”

* * *

It turns out that being _really_ serious about ice dancing causes big changes in Nini’s life as well. After driving to Waterloo for training since they were 7 and 9, she and Ricky moved in with families to be closer to the rink. Ilderton is 113 kilometers away from the rink, and Nini misses her moms and Lola more than anything, but she can’t help but think they’ve become _real skaters._

She tells Ricky such after a gruelling practice with Paul and Suzanne, their coaches. They’re walking back to Nini’s place while light snow falls on the ground, just adding more to the white banks piling up on the side of the walkway. He looks down—he’s not getting the lift that they’ve been perfecting for _weeks_ and it’s been weighing down on him—but when he looks up and fully registers her question, he laughs.

“Baller _nina_ , we’ve been real skaters since we were seven and nine, you know,” he replies, stepping on a pinecone to hear a satisfying _crunch._ “Well, I was a hockey player on the side and you were a ballerina, but still, real skaters.”

She shrugs. “We’ve moved 113 kilometers away from home to train with really great coaches, which is something I can say with _confidence_ that no _normal_ skater does. It’s been six years working together, you know. Real skaters _now._ ”

“Ew, you’re thirteen. I forgot about that _kiddo_ ,” he says, bopping her nose after she scrunches it at the nickname. 

“I’m _not_ a kid,” she retorts hotly. “You are, though, because you have to sing along every time we practice our short dance! Like, you really _don’t_ need to do both the low parts and the high parts! Your voice cracks are _awful._ ”

Ricky grins. “Well, if this skating gig doesn’t turn out, I can always go into opera singing. I feel like I would be great, the _prima assoluta_ and everything.”

“The _prima assoluta_ is a ballet term,” she corrects, laughing with Ricky trips over a rock. “ _Dummy._ ”

He sniffs as he gets up from the snow. “I knew that.”

When they stop in front of the house Nini’s staying in, she pauses on the door stoop. “Want to stay?” Her heart thrums against her chest in _one two, one two, one two_ , and she doesn’t even know why she’s nervous because this is _Ricky—_ her best friend since she was seven and he was nine and her skating partner for life. “Lane and Tyler are at work, and Marley is out with friends, so you don’t have to deal with her staring at you the entire time we watch _The Cutting Edge_.”

Ricky snorts. The daughter of the couple who’s letting Nini stay with them when they were training in Waterloo, Marley, has a crush the size of Canada on him. Nini could see it; Ricky is funny and laid back and super charming, and a bunch of the girls at the rink had a crush on him as well. She is pretty sure that people at his school did too—but it didn’t matter to her. Ricky is allowed to do whatever he wants to. They’re just best friends and confidantes and ice dance partners.

“Sorry Neens, I’m going out with Allison after I dropped you off at home. Maybe tomorrow?”

His smile is awkward, apologetic, and so very Ricky Bowen that her heart can’t help but stop—not a slow one, but one where it’s sixteenth notes playing in _allegretto_ and fortissimo until suddenly both hands have rests with a fermata. It takes her years of ballet training from _ages ago_ and her more recently and extensive ice dance ones to keep her smile from slipping off her face.

“Sure, that’s fine. I’m probably going to work on some school things then. Biology and cells, you know.” She forces cheer into her voice, ignoring the flip-flop of her stomach that’s been happening more often than not. Her chest feels heavy as she adds on in a tiny voice, “I hope you have fun with her. Allison seems pretty cool from what I know about her at the rink.”

His eyes are soft, _so soft_ , and he’s looking at her the way he’d look at puppies or one of his little cousins who were just so small and tender, and she hates it. “Thanks kiddo,” he says quietly, kissing her forehead the way he does before competitions, and that only makes her heart ache more because he sees her as his kid sister. Always had. Her toes wiggle in her boots as she resists the urge to fiddle her thumbs, ignoring that cold running through her veins. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” she breathes out, making a face as Ricky messes her hair from her perfect bun. “Don’t forget to do your homework, Ricky. Your mom would be really mad and then tell _my moms_ and then I’ll have to nag you again.”

His brown eyes twinkle as he replies, “Sure thing, Nina Ballerina. Have fun with your—'' he pauses, obviously not remembering what Nini said before. She rolls her eyes at him, shoving him over, “— _hey!_ Science! Have fun with your science. _Jeez._ ”

Nini laughs as she waves him off, watching him jog on the sidewalk, presumably to pick up Allison. Once he’s out of sight, however, her smile drops, and suddenly she feels very, very cold. She reaches up and fixes her hair, twisting it into a ponytail, and goes inside the house, not stopping until she reaches her room and flops on her bed.

Over and over in her head, the sequence of the lift they couldn’t quite nail plays in her head. It’s going to be a long night.

* * *

The crowds are blinding as she and Ricky step onto the ice—it’s their second time ever skating at the Canadian Championships, with last year ending with a resounding success as they were placed first in the pre-novice category, and now, a category up, the chills don’t hurt any less.

She spent the night before talking to Lola about _everything_ —fears, doubts, expectations—then nervously paced their hotel room in Hamilton. She threw up twice before coming to the rink, and now, dressed to the nines for their final performance—the free dance—her heart did not beat any slower.

“We got this,” Ricky whispers into her ear before they get into position. She nods back at him, mustering a small smile before assuming the starting pose. When the first three beats of the music start playing in, it all clicks.

It goes like this: Moving in sync, like the two skaters from the first time she stepped into the rink in Ilderton but _better_ , she and Ricky make eye contact.

She crosses over into her two-step sequence, each clink of their blades against the ice in perfect sync, before she twists and grabs Ricky’s hand. It’s soft and warm and so very Ricky, but it’s not what she cares about in the moment as she mounts his legs to go into a lift, bending backward as Ricky leans back into a sitting position. Her dismount is flawless, and if she wasn’t so concentrated on the dance, she might have smiled.

Their twizzles move at exactly the same time, and she doesn’t dare make eye contact with him as she drops her blade to make the second twirl. Each scrape is perfect and sharp—no toe picks are caught and every is going great. 

When the song finally ends, she feels like she’s skated the best in her life. Ricky makes eye contact with her and he _beams_ , his smile much larger than a normal Ricky Bowen smile. They bow and curtsey, and then Ricky skates over to her and swoops her up into his arms. 

“That was awesome kiddo,” he breathes, before taking her hand and skating off to exit the rink. Nini smiles back at him in acknowledgement, squeezing his hand _once, twice,_ three times, before letting go to embrace Suzanne and Paul. Her moms are in the crowd, and she waves at him. Every step, although hindered by the brilliant white skates adorning her feet, feels lighter than air as she and Ricky fall into an even pace towards the Kiss and Cry.

Ricky takes her hand again—what he always does when getting their results—and they both stare anxiously at the screen. When their score and overall pop up on the screen, Nini’s hands fly to her mouth. It’s the highest score they’ve gotten all season, and she can’t think because _holy shit holy shit holy shit_. Her heart beats and beats and races until she’s pretty sure that everyone in the booth—no, the _rink_ —can hear it, and it soars until—

“Nini Salazar-Roberts and Ricky Bowen, third place.”

The organ in her chest that pushes the lifeblood of her veins, the very reason she’s standing, really, stops. She can feel all of the blood draining from her face and suddenly she feels very, very cold. 

This is the best they’ve ever danced in their life. Every lift was executed perfectly. Their twizzles, which they had a hard time getting _just right_ , were done down to the “t” and there were no trips, no falls, nothing. Yet still, after spending the entire season being good, then better, then amazing, they still fall short. Two places short, to be exact.

Nini Salazar-Roberts is an ice dancer who has moved 113 kilometers away from home, with a small group of friends that are never really _there_ because she’s always at the rink or catching up on work, and bunions from her skates and aches in her calves. She is a child alone, away from her family, her moms, Lola, and only has Ricky, who’s there for her but not. She spends her time always working, always pushing, and yet, everything she does seems to always be close, but not close enough. 

Going to the Olympics and winning gold is something she’s wanted since she fully committed to ice dancing. Everything she does is a step towards that goal, but now, it seems like every step forward is met with one step back. It’s worse than one of those skating treadmills—a push is met with nothing, you’re going nowhere—and what’s more terrible than that is that they’ve technically gotten _worse_ since the last season. That, or people keep moving forward and forward and forward with the tide, and Nini’s stuck in limbo, trying to swim against the current while being repeatedly shoved back.

She doesn’t have to look to her right to see Ricky’s face. He’s obviously disappointed as well, from the way his hand falls from her loose grip. When they leave the kiss and cry, his face is ashen. Sunny and happy Ricky Bowen feels as gray as she does, and that seems even shittier than being saddled in third place.

Suzanne and Paul are happy though, and Nini can’t understand why. They lost. They won last year, but they lost this year. They got worse. There’s nothing good about that.

“What’s with the long faces, guys? That was awesome!” Paul exclaims, ruffling Ricky’s hair as the boy only frowns harder. “Best skate of your lives! Rhythm and choreography were down pat, and the score was your highest so far. We’re really proud of you, and I know your parents are too.”

Her mouth curls into a scowl, while Ricky laughs. It’s harsh and bitter, cutting through the chilling air of the rink, which only seems to be getting cooler. “How? We lost.”

“This is the Canadian Championships,” Suzanne interjects smoothly. Nini’s eyes fixate on her, biting back a “ _so what?_ ” as their assistant coach continues. “You guys are the youngest ever to compete in the novice category. Technically, you should be in the pre-novice still, but we know you guys. We know how hard you work, and we know how talented you are. Tonight proved it.”

“We still got third place,” Ricky reminds her. Nini doesn’t say anything, just biting her lip and staring at the ground. To be honest, she didn’t know _what_ to say. What Suzanne and Paul were saying makes sense, but it doesn’t mean that the third place didn’t sting all the more. It was the best score of their season. Shouldn’t that count for anything?

“Third place in a group of people who are about four years older than you, have had that much more training, and are generally stronger than you,” Paul states simply. “Ricky, Nini, you guys have beat kids who have trained longer than you. You have worked so hard and we’ve seen you guys improve a lot since you’ve started, and we know you’re going to keep going. Trust me, this is only going to be the beginning.”

Nini bites her lip, then nods. Ricky is still fuming, but has simmered down a lot considering how his temper seems to flare easily. “So, what’s next?” her voice is tiny, sounding more defeated than anything, and so, so tired. 

Beside her, Ricky mouths the words, _“Olympics.”_

Suzanne smiles then, wide and glowing. “We keep working.”

That night after she and Ricky force a smile on the right side of the podium with heavy bronze medals around their necks, Nini opens the video of her and RIcky’s performances over the season with a pink pen and notebook beside her. She’s biting her lip and rubbing her eyes as she studies each move, each crossover, each push of a blade and scribbles notes down in cursive pink.

Hour after hour, combing tirelessly throughout each dance, her pen is the only thing that can be heard besides the playing of the score over and over again. Her moms and Lola, who seems more tired than usual, have gone to sleep already, and it’s just her. She should be sleeping, but she can’t as she rewatches the lift that she’s put a bunch of asterisks beside and wincing on her stance. Each time she watches it, the dismount becomes worse and worse, and she's writing down notes and notes about what they need to work on back in Waterloo.

Be good, then be better, then be the best. If that’s what it takes to one day win gold in the Olympics and become the first person ever of Asian descent to win a medal in ice dance, it’s worth it. 

And the next day, they get to work.

* * *

The next few years are a blur. 

She and Ricky fight more now, with her wanting to focus on the technical aspect and points system of the dance, while Ricky prefers to move along to the beat of the music and dance through there. The tensions rise higher and higher, especially because while Nini dedicates all her time off the rink practicing moves off ice, studying videos taken from practice, or catching up on school work, Ricky spends time hanging out with friends, sometimes girlfriends. It’s not that he’s not dedicated, but it’s a little frustrating she’s the one who’s fighting and pulling them along, trying to put all of her time and energy into accomplishing their joint goal of going to the Olympics, while he spends his time elsewhere.

She knows it’s not fair of her to ask him to do more. But that doesn’t stop it from hurting any less.

One particular fight starts after Ricky misses the dismount and Nini is at the end of her rope, snapping at him, “Well, if only you spent more time studying the lift, maybe you would have got it by now.”

His face is red as she yells at him, “It’s not my fault I have a life outside of skating, Nini! I don’t have to spend all of my time obsessively rewatching videos and taking notes each time we make the smallest screw up. Skating is supposed to be _fun_ , and you’re not making it anything like that with a major stick up your ass!”

Red hot anger surges through her veins because _how dare he_. Can he not see that she’s doing all she can to be better? To be the best in their age category, to push to be the best and near-perfect partner? As she stands by and just lets him _waste_ his time fooling around with all of those different girls, while she spends it making sure that they know what to fix, how to be better, how to be the best? 

Everything she does for him, _for them_ , means nothing. She’s a little blip in his life, a hindrance, a burden. Just a toy that you like playing with when you’re young, only to be shoved aside in the corner as a big, dirty reminder that you’re growing up and have obligations. Life sucks, but in life, you have goals you want to meet. And Nini isn’t sure that she can meet them without Ricky. _No_ , she knows she can’t make them without Ricky.

“How-how _dare_ you?” her voice is bubbling over, on the tip of spilling out boiling hot water that _melts and melts and melts_. “I’m spending my time watching over it because you can’t seem to find any time to even _look_ at our routines outside of practice. Everything—this, skating, _me_ —is an inconvenience to you.” She’s shaking now, tears threatening to burst, and she can see Paul opening his mouth before Suzanne places a hand on his arm. 

“ _Nini_ —” Ricky starts, still fuming, but his eyes are softer, less harsh and angry looking at her than he’s been all year, but she’s not letting him cut her off. _No_ , after a year of being pushed aside and being taken for granted, Nini is _done_.

“ _No_ , you don’t get to say anything. I feel like I’m the only one in this partnership that remembers our goals. Remember? Olympics, winning gold. Does any of that ring a bell?” her vision clouds with tears, and she sucks in deep breaths, willing them not to fall. She can’t let them fall. “If that doesn’t matter to you—if _I_ don’t matter to you anymore—why can’t you let me go? Why can’t you tell me? Because yeah, I’ll be angry, but Ricky, you’ve been my best friend and I’m your partner and you _have to be honest with me_. If you want to stop, we’ll stop skating together, and you can have a normal life with no weird hours and a girl that’s two years younger than you always hanging out with you because _I know_ your friends make jokes about it. But _please_ , just be honest with me. If you don’t want to do this anymore, _fine_ , you don’t have to, but if you want to keep doing this, if the Olympics are still your dreams like they are mine, _please_ put some effort into this. I can’t do this alone Ricky, I’m sick of doing this alone.”

She’s crying now, her tears pitter pattering on the rubber surrounding the rink, and she’s just _so tired_ of fighting with him. She wraps her arms around herself—something she did back in National Ballet School after a terrible rehearsal with her bun coming undone—and wills herself to stop crying.

His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “Ballernina,” he starts, and Nini almost sobs at the nickname because it’s been _so long_ since he’s called her anything other than _Nini_ , “I want to keep skating with you. _Of course_ I want to keep skating with you. You’re my partner, you know? Forever and ever until you get annoyed with me. I’ll put more time and effort in, I’m sorry that I didn’t before. I will, I promise.”

She sniffles, weakly putting out her arms. “Hug it out?” she asks in a small voice, feeling like she’s seven and he’s nine again and Claire just made them hold hands. 

He laughs and wraps her in a giant, Ricky Bowen hug, and she buries her head into the crook of his neck, letting the rest of her tears fall. 

He stays true to his word. He goes over to her place, spending the time with her off the rink studying moves and practicing the lifts they didn’t quite get before. There’s a rapid improvement in their relationship once again, and they’re closer than ever. It’s obvious with the benefits of their performance as well, and their season is filled with personal bests being made every performance.

They travel all around the globe: Croatia and Slovakia are cool new places where Nini gets Lola scarves and her moms mugs, and Ricky gets her a tutu charm because she’s _Nina Ballerina_. It’s their debut for the ISU Junior Grand Prix—a segway into the senior level competitions, which eventually lead up to the Olympics—and they place fourth and sixth respectively. 

But the highlight of the 2003-2004 season is the Canadian Championships in Edmonton, where after a night of puking and compulsively dancing through the night in her hotel room, she and Ricky place first in. This time, she gets confirmation that they did the best they could yet—the score is a personal best and they’ve beat out over 20 other junior teams who are hailed as some of the greatest in Canada—and Ricky whoops and wraps her in the tightest hug before kissing her forehead as he does every time they do great.

Her heart is pounding and her stomach flops, but for the first time in the season, she doesn’t feel nauseous. She feels giddy and a huge weight seems to have lifted off her shoulders, because every step she takes in skates that gave her bunions and calves that ache a little too much seems lighter than air. When news of their qualification for the Junior World Championships breaks, Ricky hugs her so tight that she’s gasping for air, but _laughing_ as if he told her the funniest joke in the world (though, any joke he tells makes her laugh without fail).

Eleventh best in the world is a sobering thought, something that crashes down on her in waves back at her hotel room in the Netherlands, and like most times, she throws up twice when it finally dawns on her. Eleventh best won’t get you on the podium. Hell, it won’t even get you on the world stage as a recognizable pair. 

Like most nights after a performance, she watches the video of her and Ricky dancing, as well as every other pair’s performance from those three days, and gets to work. There’s a long road ahead.

* * *

**_Do what makes you happy. You know things are right when things make you happy._ **

_But Lola,_ she thinks, _I love skating and dancing with Ricky more than anything. And I’m not happy now, but I will be. When we get there, when we make it, I will be. I promise._

The silence doesn’t reply, but it speaks in magnifying volumes.

* * *

“If we weren’t real skaters before, we definitely are now,” she tells Ricky as she plops beside him in the car. He grumbles, currently being buried under pillows and half-asleep, but she shoves him. “Ricky! It’s 9 AM. Seriously, you’ve been awake for only an hour, and I know for a fact that you can wake up earlier.”

He says something unintelligible, before Nini socks his arm, causing him to yelp. “Hey!” his curls are a mess, and she resists the urge to fix them. They really are a disaster. “What were you saying again?”

She smirks. “I was saying that we’re _finally_ real skaters now.”

“Baller _nina_ —” he starts dramatically, rubbing the last of sleep from his eyes, “we’ve won the Junior Canadian Championships and have went to Junior Worlds. We’ve been real skaters for at least two years now.”

“But now we’re training under Jenn Reinders. You know, _the_ Jenn Reinders, who trained Katia Romanova and Sergio Ivanov, _and_ Tanith Lichtemen and Ben Reed, _and_ —” she rambles off, watching his eyes drift close before punching his arm again. His face is comical when she does it—with hazel eyes widening and his mouth forming an “o”. 

She and Ricky are moving to Canton, Michigan after being offered to train under Jenn Reinders and Zach Hough. Jenn Reinders is legendary in the skating world—having won 2 Skate Canada Internationals and coached several skaters into Olympic gold medals. It’s crazy to think that they’ve been given the chance to skate under Jenn, even more so that they’re doing it at her private rink, the Arctic Edge Arena.

This only reminds of their goal, and it makes her heart race when she thinks about how it’s getting them closer to the Olympics. Jenn has coached champion after champion through Olympics and Worlds and Four Continents, and maybe, just maybe, she and Ricky will be one of them. 

Canton is further than Waterloo—in a different country, actually—but Nini has been independent since she was 7 and started getting serious about ballet with ice dancing on the side. And like always, it’s just her and Ricky, alone in a different country 250 kilometers away from home. Times with him often feel like they’re the little dancers in her snow globes, circling around each other and isolated from the rest of the world, and _really_ , it’s fine, because they’re going to _be_ somewhere one day and then it’s going to mean _something_. _It has to._

And yeah, sure, Nini is going to miss the friends she made back in Waterloo, but she travels a lot and spends more of her time at the rink or analyzing her routines anyways. There's no such thing as a balanced athlete, and that’s okay. If she wants to get somewhere—if she and Ricky are going to be at the top of a vermeil podium with heavy gold medals around their necks—she’s going to have to give up a lot of things. Friends, potential boyfriends, the chance to be with her moms every day, and just the company of _other people_ are all gone. But it’s okay. It’s _going_ to be okay _one day_. 

Ricky has nudged himself back to sleep, and she doesn’t have the heart to wake him up again. She said goodbye to Lola earlier that morning, who tells her what she always tells her. _“Please, do what makes you happy, and stop worrying about what you think people expect of you. My Nini, that is all I want you to do.”_

Momma D is in the driver’s seat, with Lynne, Ricky’s mom, beside her in shotgun. Some of their stuff is loaded in the trunk, but Mike and Momma C are following them in another car with the rest of it. They’re going to leave a car behind for them because Ricky can drive now, and then, after making sure they’re settled in with their host families, they’ll get going back to Ilderton. Just like that.

“Are you scared?” she whispers to him like she’s seven and he’s nine again and it’s their first day going to Waterloo for training. He mumbles something undecipherable, and she sighs, leaning back into her seat. Momma D and Lynne are engrossed in a conversation that fills the car, overpowering _The Tragically Hip_ in the background, and once again, Nini feels so, so small. “I am.”

But Ricky says nothing back, because why would he? He’s sleeping, not magical. She takes a shuddering breath and turns her back away from her slumbering partner, staring out the window to look at the cars passing them by. Red, black, brown, blue, and the occasional odd coloured car all zip by, blurring into a mirage of colours, and she can feel herself being lulled to sleep with the flashing colours, _The Tragically Hip_ , and Ricky’s snoring beside her.

By the time she wakes up, Ricky is rocking her shoulder and mock-whispering, “Nina Ballerina! Wake up! We’re here!” 

She yawns, stretching her arms out and accidentally hitting something solid. There’s a yelp, then a laugh, and when she opens her eyes, she can see Ricky holding his nose dramatically, while Lynne and Momma D are snickering. “Huh? What happened?”

“Neens, we’re in Canton,” Momma D explains, sparing a look over to Ricky with a big smile forming on her face, “and we’re at the place you guys are going to stay at.”

“Oh,” she says. Her heart sinks and sinks in her chest as the warm fuzzy feeling she felt from sleep slowly is overtaken by the frost crawling through her veins. “That’s cool.”

Momma D, either not noticing her hesitation or doing a good job of not showing it, drags Nini out of the car and pulls her into a tight hug. Nini hugs her back the best she can, but her arms feel like lead and her calves are screaming and everything feels _numb numb numb._ She feels like she wants to sob and scream and cry, which is absolutely ridiculous and over dramatic because she’s done this before and it was _fine_. So she stares over her mom’s shoulder, willing herself to be stronger, to be steelier, to be happier.

She manages a forced smile as Momma C comes with a luggage in her hand, and Nini leaps towards her mom in a hug. Her smile is perfectly intact as she pulls away, and there are no tears in her vision. Perfect. She turns to the house she’s going to stay at, memorises the number, the colour of the shingles, the paving of the driveway, and takes a deep breath. She’s going to be okay. She’s always okay.

When she pulls away from her mother, she feels the urge to cling on tighter, to tell her mother, _“please, please don’t let me go_ ,” but she doesn’t because Nini knows that she can’t be this weak. The urge is there, though, clawing under her skin and arms like a puppeteer, and it takes all of her self-control to cut the strings. 

There’s a man and a woman and a girl who looks to be Ricky’s age standing in front of the house. They’re all unfairly stunning, a picture perfect family with a handsome father and beautiful mother and pretty daughter with shiny, sleek black hair, luminous green eyes, and flawlessly tanned skin. “Neens, Ricky, this is Adrian and Cassia Diamandis, and their daughter Selene. You’re going to be staying with them while you’re training here in Michigan.”

She looks over at Ricky, who smiles gently at her. Back in Waterloo, they stayed in different houses, but since they’re older, she guesses that their parents were okay with it. Also, probably because Ricky can drive now. Definitely because he can. “It’s nice to meet you,” she says, shaking Adrian and Cassia’s hands. Selene doesn’t want to, shaking her head and instead, settling for a wave. She’s already making eyes at Ricky, like Marley and just about every one of Nini’s female (and some male) friends did back in Waterloo, and yeah, maybe things won’t change too much. 

Adrian and Cassia take them to their rooms. Nini’s is between Ricky and Selene, a little bit bigger than the one she stayed at with Lane and Tyler. She’s sharing a bathroom with Selene, and Ricky gets his own, which is fine because she shared one with Marley. The girl in question curls her lip, though, when her hosts mention it, and her heart sinks just a little because she knows she’s an unwelcome addition to Selene’s life. 

Her stuff is placed in the room in the form of neatly stacked boxes, and by the time it’s done, the clock reads _4:58_ PM. Their parents don’t have to leave. They could stay a night in Canton and then drive home tomorrow. Nini says that to them, but they laugh.

“We want to give you time to settle in, Neens,” Momma D explains while she’s shutting the trunk of the car after the final box is moved by Mike and Ricky. “And we’re going to call every night if you want to. It’s going to be like Waterloo.”

 _It’s not_ , she bites back. _It’s further, and bigger, and emptier_ , _and I’m going to miss you so much._ _Momma, please_.

But Nini nods, and Momma D wraps her in a hug. Momma C joins in, pressing her face in Nini’s hair, and she can feel a tear trickle from her mother’s face. “I’m going to miss you,” she says, just like she did two years ago when she was moving in with Lane and Tyler in Waterloo. “Promise me you’ll call?”

“Of course sweetheart,” Momma C replies soothingly. “We’re so, so proud of you, you know that? Look at you! You’re all grown up, you don’t need us anymore.”

 _I need you,_ she almost says, _because I don’t know what I’m going to do now. What’s going to happen. What if I fail in front of Jenn and Derek? What if Ricky ends up resenting me? What if you get so used to me not being there that you don’t need me anymore? What if_ Lola _doesn’t want to see me anymore? What if no one needs me anymore?_

But she shakes her head with a million other things on the tip of her tongue, and instead tells them, “That’s not true. I need you, momma, I need you a lot.”

“We’ll be in touch, Neener. We love you so much and we’re so proud of you. We’re also only a two and a half hour drive away, so you can always make Ricky drive you home if you miss us a lot.” This draws a choked off laugh from her. “Bye sweetheart, we’ll see you soon for your big competitions with Lola. We love you.”

“I love you mommas.” She feels like she’s thirteen again and unsure of where she fits in the careful mold of her host family’s life, while trying to fit into a new school with pre-established friend groups and eighth graders angry at everything in the world and themselves. Her moms give her one last smile before meeting up with the Bowens, who wave at them before getting in the car.

Her eyes never leave it as it pulls out the driveway and disappears from the horizon.

Ricky wraps an arm around her, placing his head on hers like they always do when studying routines. “Just you and me again, kiddo,” he says, eyes trained on the spot the car was last visible.

She can hear herself faintly agree.

* * *

Every night, she calls her moms and spends hours on the phone talking to them. After that, she dials Lola, and talks in depth about everything that happened that day—school, assignments, practice, and her relationship with Ricky. Jenn is cracking the whip hard on them, always telling them that they _“need more passion”_ , _“look like you’re in love with her, Ricky!”_ , and _“Nini, no one would want to watch a dance where the female is stiff and unappealing.”_

Lola listens. Lola lets her talk about her problems. Lola makes her feel important, because lately she’s been feeling like she’s screaming at a brick wall, with nothing to hear what she has to say since she doesn’t matter. It’s a routine she’s grateful for every day, because without it she would surely have exploded or crumpled under the weight of the sky forced upon her shoulders with no relief in sight. 

And more and more often, she can feel the force becoming heavier and heavier and heavier, and it takes all she can to make sure she doesn’t fall.

* * *

“This is bullshit,” Ricky says, throwing popcorn at the screen. “We should be in Italy right now, skating there. Do you see those twizzles? Sloppy. We could spin circles around them. _Literally_.”

She sighs, bending over to pick the popcorn off the ground. “We were listed as alternates, Ricky. We’re still technically qualified. We just missed the cutoff.”

“Yeah, by one fucking place,” he snorts, continuing to throw popcorn on the tiny screen displaying the Canadian pair who beat them out by 0.01 points trip. “It was a fluke too—just because they didn’t like the hand placement—the fucking placement of a hand, _Nina Ballerina_. It’s a stupid decision, we would have been better.”

After making their senior debut nationally, she and Ricky slowly climbed up the radar as _“Canada’s favourite junior ice dancing duo!”_ The youngest pair to compete at a senior level and place in the top 5—fourth last year and third this year—and the team _Salazar/Bowen_ started to make waves throughout Canada. The Olympics was so, so close, and then they just… _missed it_. 

“Ricky...” she starts, but she’s cut off with another voice in the room.

“No Nini, he’s right. You guys were snubbed.” EJ Caswell, a fellow Canadian skater at the Arctic Edge Arena, interjects. EJ is tall with broad shoulders and is a bit of a meathead, but sweet and blunt all the same. He takes a swig of a foul-smelling drink that Nini _knows_ is some type of cheap beer he managed to trick someone into letting him buy. “I mean, so you fuck up your CD by a 4.01 point gap. Whatever. But you beat the second place team by 4 points in the other two dances and place second in both your OD and your FD? The math works, Nini.”

Beside her, eating a pack of Lays, EJ’s partner, Gina, snorts. Gina is beautiful, tall, and graceful, statuesque even with the air of respect being commanded when she walks into a room. Together, the Porter/Caswell team is one of the best junior pair teams worldwide, and yet, they didn’t make it either. “EJ, it really, really doesn’t. You do know that 4.01 minus 4 is 0.1, right? So even though they beat the other pair with a total of 4 points ahead in the other dances, no matter their placements, that’s still a zero point one lead.”

“Still,” EJ insists, swinging his bottle towards the screen, “the team that _‘beat’_ you is doing really shitty right now. You see their CD? How could they beat you with that shitty thing? Let me tell you, the country really made a mistake not sending you guys instead.”

Ricky nods, grabbing a can of beer EJ brought with him and cracking one open. “The twizzles, man, they keep fucking up the twizzles.” He nudges his head over to Nini. “EJ Caswell knows what he’s talking about. He can do _death spirals._ ”

“Yeah, and I’m pretty sure he has brain damage from all the times he’s fallen backwards from doing _death spirals_ ,” she retorts. “Either that, or you both are super drunk right now if you think we would listen to your _mansplaining_.”

“But Baller _nina_ —” Ricky whines, drawing out the _nina_ , “the Olympics are our _dream_ and we were so close this year. Hell, we were so, so close.”

She gives him a half-heart smile. “We still went to Four Continents with EJ and Gina,” she reminds, _no_ , tells him, “and we got the bronze medal, which is pretty cool. We’re also going to Junior Worlds next month, so it’s not _so_ bad. Next Olympics, alright? We need to get some more titles under our name.”

“National junior champions,” he starts, stumbling a bit over the word _national_ , “third in the world for junior teams, third in _Canada_ for senior teams, silver medalists in the Junior Grand Prix, _third_ in the world for _senior level_ Four Continents and only at the age of sixteen and eighteen—”

“We’re still primarily juniors on an international level,” she points out even as a prideful smirk spreads slowly across her, “and the Olympics are like for the best of the best seniors. Next Olympics, and we’ll shoot for the gold right at home.”

Ricky and EJ mumble something that she really, really can’t understand, and Gina nudges her with a soft smile. “Boys, am I right?” her tone is light, and Nini snorts. “No, but you guys did great this season. You need to know that Neens.”

“Thanks,” she says. “You and EJ were awesome too. Oh my god, your free program was absolutely insane. Like, your jumps? Could not do that. That’s probably why I went into ice dance, because you know what they say. Pair skating is the NFL of figure skating.”

Gina hums. “I don’t know Nina _Ballerina_ , I think that you could probably do some of the jumps with Ricky. Jenn and Zach are in Turin right now for Tanith and Ben, so do you want to try that tomorrow?”

She shakes her head regretfully. “As much as I would love to take you up on that offer, we have Worlds in March and Jenn would absolutely murder me if I got hurt. She’s already been telling me that I’m ‘not sexy enough for the audience’. Whatever that means. Ugh.”

“I don’t think you need to,” Gina says. “I’ve watched all of your performances and I think it’s just a polishing sort of thing? You’re in the groove but you’re not in the _moment_. You’re working so hard to be in there in technicalities but you’re not really in the dance.” She chews on a chip. “Or that’s what I think at least.”

Nini blinks. “Thanks Gi, I never really thought of it like that.”

The other girl gives her a smile. “No problem Neens, anytime.” After glancing at the screen, she turns to the boys. “Please shut up now, Alice Lauzon and Benjamin Mazzara are up next and Nini and I both want to watch this one.”

Alice Lauzon and Benjamin Mazzara are the best ice dancers in Canada at the moment, having won 2 World Titles and 3 Four Continents. They were first in the Canadian Championships, and Nini obsessively watched their original dance to _Ne Me Quitte Pas_ at least hundreds of times. They are the favourites to win gold for Canada this season, which would make them the first Canadian ice dancers in history to take home the gold.

When the first beat of their compulsory dance starts, Nini is just as blown away as she was the first time she watched it in person at the Canadian Championships. Alice and Benjamin move in sync, like the snow globe she has sitting in her room back in Ilderton. Push and pull, with Finn Steps in sync and twizzles executed perfectly.

But then, something happens. Alice, who must have done this lift hundreds of times before, drops from midair, _falling and falling and falling_ until her leg lands on the ice in a sickening crack. Nini’s eyes are blown open, mouth hanging open in shock as Benjamin stops his sequence and kneels beside Alice, whose face is twisted in pain. The music stops, and the Palavela must have been eerily quiet. With a grim expression on his face, he scoops his partner up off the ice and exits it. 

The room is silent too. Ricky and EJ, who were rambunctiously loud before, are staring at the TV in open mouth horror. Gina’s face is pale, and Nini can feel the blood rush from hers as well. 

“What just happened?” EJ breaks the silence, his voice trembling as he does so.

No one answers. She doesn’t think that anyone _wants_ to, because what happened to Alice is every skater’s worst nightmare come true, and at the Olympics she was projected to win— “I think Lauzon-Mazzara just withdrew from the Olympics,” Gina answers weakly. No one says anything after that.

And for another Olympics, for another year, the Canadians don’t take home a figure skating medal.

* * *

**_BREAKING: Ice Dance Duo Salazar/Bowen Becomes the First Canadians to Ever Take Home the Junior World Champions Title_ **

_LJUBLJANA, SLOVENIA -- Nini Salazar-Roberts, 16, and Ricky Bowen, 18, known in the skating world by their last names Salazar/Bowen, became the first Canadians to ever take home the title at the 2006 World Junior Championships on Sunday. Beating out 26 other teams, Salazar/Bowen stunned with their original dance to a medley of_ Beautiful Maria _and_ Do You Only Want to Dance _and their free dance to_ Malagueña _, scoring first in all three categories and beating out the silver medalists by a whooping 4.16 points._

_Salazar-Roberts is the first person of Asian descent to not only win the Junior World Championships, as well as the Junior Canadian Championships and the ISU Junior Grand Prix. She is also the only ice dancer of Asian descent to be placed on the podium for Four Continents and the Canadian Championships._

_Salazar/Bowen has been making waves in the skating community for years since their debut in the pre-novice category for the Canadian Championships in 2001, where they placed first. Last season, Salazar/Bowen shocked viewers around the world in becoming the first Canadians to win the Junior ISU Grand Prix Final._

_The pair of Canadians are the most decorated junior-level ice dancers in their country’s history._

_This historic win comes two months after the pair was shortlisted as the alternate duo to compete at the 2006 Winter Olympics in Turin._

_SEE ALSO: Canadians Win Big at the Junior Worlds Championships with Salazar/Bowen and Porter/Caswell_

**_Making History (Again): Salazar/Bowen’s Senior International Debut_ **

_After their performance at Junior Worlds last season in Ljubljana left the skating world on the lookout for the decorated Canadian team, Nini Salazar-Roberts, 17, and Ricky Bowen, 19, end the 2006-2007 season with a bang. And wow, what a season for the Canadians indeed._

_Starting strong with their Grand Prix debut, Salazar/Bowen placed second at the 2006 Skate Canada International with a narrow 1.19 lead over the Italians. They trail Canadian Champions Lauzon/Mazarra, who after their tragic loss at the Olympics, come back at the season with full force, through a 20-point gap._

_Not to be outdone by the previous year, Salazar/Bowen snagged the silver medal at the Canadian Championships, placing second in all three categories and once again trailing reigning champions Lauzon/Mazarra. Their routines to_ Assassination Tango _and_ Valse Triste _has CBC ice dance commentor Tracy Wilson calling them, “The [next] best thing that will ever happen to Canada in sports. Just you wait.” Jenn Reinders and Zach Hough, the duo’s coaches, were seen cheering the team on from the side boards._

_After maintaining their bronze at Four Continents and beating American training partners Lily Keegan and Howie Ashman by 5.2 points, Salazar/Bowen went on to have the highest debut at the World Championships in over two decades. Placing sixth behind World and Olympic medalists including Lichtemen/Reed and Lauzon/Mazarra, the pair of Canadians continue to turn heads in the skating community._

_Coaches Jenn Reinders and Zach Hough had 3 pairs in the top 10: Americans Lichtemen/Reed, who went on to take the silver at Turin 2006; Keegan/Ashman, who placed seventh overall; and, of course, Salazar/Bowen._

_The Canadians end the season as sixth in the world overall._

**_Salazar/Bowen are Canadian Champions_ **

_After two years of slowly but surely clawing their way to the top, decorated ice dance team Salazar/Bowen claimed their first title of national champions at the 2008 Canadian Championships in Vancouver. With a stunning 33.5 point lead in front of silver medalists, the duo goes on to secure their spots at the World Championships and Four Continents._

_This win for the Canadians comes after the pair becomes the youngest ice dance duo to qualify and place fourth for the ISU Grand Prix, which is arguably the most elite competition in the skating community. Only the top six from the season are selected to participate in it._

**_Canadians Fight Off the Frost at 2008 World Championships and Four Continents_ **

_Junior World Champions, Junior Grand Prix Champions, and newly minted national champions Nini Salazar-Roberts, 18, and Ricky Bowen, 20, add two more titles under their belt: Four Continents champions and silver medalists at the World Championships._

_After beating American training partners Keegan/Ashman once again, Salazar/Bowen goes on to place first in all three categories, at the Four Continents with a 7.87 lead overall. The World Championships, however, may have been the pair’s career highlight from an already stunning display of titles under their belt as their program to_ The Umbrellas of Cherbourg _soundtrack leads to them placing first in the free dance program and second in the world._

**_Out for the Season? Salazar/Bowen Drop Out_ **

_Following a stunning season that led to three titles being placed under their belt, seasoned ice dance duo Salazar/Bowen withdraw from the first half of the 2008-2009 season. The reason for this decision is not yet disclosed to the press. More will come soon._

* * *

Every step hurts.

She grits her teeth as she takes another one, tears starting to form in her eyes as she grabs onto Ricky’s arm to keep herself from falling. 

The pain in her calves is lancing, stabbing at every nerve ending in them. It’s so unreal that she doesn’t even think it’s just physical now, but each small movement of her leg leads to pinpricks on the tiniest needles inserting itself into her legs, her arms, her calves, and her heart. 

She stumbles off the ice, with one arm locked in a vice-like grip on Ricky’s arm, and the other clutching onto the boards. Jenn is there with worry written all over her features as she catches Nini’s other side from falling. Nini leans her weight onto Ricky, but every miniscule movement makes it almost impossible to want to do anything.

“Nini, what’s wrong?” Zach asks, coming over with a stretcher they use for people with broken legs who can’t move, and embarrassingly enough, it’s the only thing that looks comfortable to her. She can see Gina and EJ enter the rink, ready for their session, and shuts her eyes closed as another shot of pain rips through her. She muffles the urge to scream, and tries to normalize the pain. Her calves have always ached. This is nothing new. This _has_ to be nothing new, because they had the best season of their careers last year, and if they stop for one second then Lily and Howie will pass them and—

“It’s nothing,” she grits out, forcing a smile as another dig in her calves almost forces a scream from her. “I’ll be fine, just give me a chance to— _argh_.” She lays down on the stretcher, biting her lip so hard she can feel hot, hot red blood flow from it. The phone dial starts to ring, and her eyes snap open to Jenn, who’s dialling a number into the rink’s phone, and then to Ricky, who’s never looked so ashen before as he grips her hand. “No, no seriously, I’m fine. Just give me a chance to sit down. I’ll be back soon and we can finally nail that Finnstep sequence—”

But everyone ignores her as Jenn, who has called up the hospital apparently—for reasons Nini _seriously_ can’t understand because she’s _fine_ —takes off her skates. Ricky’s eyes never leave hers as it happens, and she suppresses another scream as Jenn yanks too hard.

“Baller _nina_ —” he says, not sounding like her suave and smooth and charming and arrogant skating partner at _all_ , and she can personally attest to that because they’ve been skating together for twelve years, “don’t worry. You’re going to be fine. We’re going to get you to the hospital and we’ll see what’s wrong with you.”

“But the routine,” she mutters weakly, finding it impossible to move as she lies immobile on the stretcher, “we need to nail the Finnsteps.”

He shakes his head, laughing in a teary way that makes the situation feel much worse than it actually is because it’s _fine_. She’s had cramps in her calves before. This is _normal_. “No,” he tells her softly, “kiddo, we need to make sure you’re fine first, okay? Skating can wait. It has to wait until you’re better.”

“But the Olympics,” she whispers back, finding it too hard to raise her voice any louder as the pain makes her want to drift into sleep, “Ricky, our goals. We’re so, so close.”

“And we’ll make it, Neens, and when we do it will be because you feel better, okay? Not because you can’t walk and are being silly and want to skate when you’re hurt. Even if you get right on the ice right now and try to skate, I won’t be there because I know you’re putting yourself through hell every step of the way, and then we _can’t_ work on our Finnsteps. So _stay_ , and we’ll see what’s wrong with you first.”

The pain is making her hazy now, her vision a little fuzzy as she finds it difficult to keep them open. “Mm, ‘kay,” she manages. “Love you.”

His eyes soften a bit, and maybe it’s the stabbing and twisting knives in her calves that are making her delirious, but maybe, just maybe, his grip on her hand tightens. He kisses her forehead softly, like she’s thirteen and he’s fifteen and they’ve just moved 113 kilometers away from home and Nini was crying because she missed her moms and Lola more than anything. “Love ya too, Nina Ballerina.” And it’s comforting though, because even though he loves her like his kid sister, she decides that she would rather have him in her life and love her like that than lose him in any other way.

But, the thoughts are a product of the pain, and she decides that as the ambulance carries her off to the hospital, with Ricky sitting right beside her the entire way.

* * *

“Nini!” Momma D gasps as she grabs Nini into a hug. Momma C and Lola are close behind, the Salazar/Salazar-Roberts women embracing each other into a tight, tight hug. “Sweetheart, when we got the call, we were terrified, and I— I was so worried.”

She manages a smile and sits upright in her hospital bed. It’s a few hours after arriving at the hospital, and the doctors have run a few tests on her legs already. Ricky sits beside her, clutching her hand, talking to her about anything and everything, and it’s nice, really, if you think about it, except that she could have been perfecting her programs with Ricky by now.

Still, it’s nice because her family is _all here now_ , and she can see Ricky smile beside her, until Momma C beckons him into the hug. He buries his face into her hair, which has long since been out of its perfect ponytail, and the pain seems to subside, if only for a moment. 

“Do they know what’s wrong?” Momma C asks once the hug breaks. 

Ricky shakes his head. “They came in to do tests, but nothing much. I think it’s coming soon, though.”

“Oh sweetheart,” her mother says, combing her hair back and kissing her forehead. “I’m so, so sorry.”

She shrugs. “It’s probably just a fracture or sprain, mommas, and I’ll be back on the ice soon. I’m fine, I promise.”

Her mothers don’t look convinced, and neither does Ricky as Lola approaches her, running a hand softly over her matted hair. “My Nini,” she says warmly, “don’t worry about the results, but also don’t try to overexert yourself. You are still human, and you need to make sure you take a break sometimes.”

“I’ll take a break when we win gold at the Olympics,” she replies, and she can see Ricky’s mouth open, “and I know my limits. I’ll be fine. I am fine. I feel better already.”

She’s lying through her teeth and Ricky can tell, seeing from the way he glimpses back at her unconvincingly. He won’t say it out loud, because he respects that for her, but she knows it’s bothering him. 

The doctor comes in with a clipboard and kind smile on her face. She is middle aged, with rich cocoa skin and beautiful dark hair pulled into a curly ponytail. “Hello, family of Nini Salazar-Roberts?” After a nod from her parents, the doctor continues. “I’m Doctor Meghan Nichols, and I’m the doctor on Miss Salazar-Roberts’ case.”

“Do you know what’s wrong?” Momma D asks, taking Nini’s hand and squeezing it tight. “Do we need to take her home? How long should she be off her feet?”

Nini rolls her eyes. “Dr. Nichols, please tell my family that I’m fine and after a few days off my feet I’ll be fine to go back to skating.” The doctor’s mouth softens into a frown. “I _can_ go back to skating soon, right?”

“What Nini has is chronic exertional compartment syndrome,” Dr. Nichols explains, and with every word the doctor says, her heart sinks a little lower in her chest. “It’s a condition where increased pressure in certain limbs, in Nini’s case, her calves, which results in insufficient blood flow to the tissue in that area.”

“Is— is it treatable?” she can hear herself ask, her voice tiny and small and as miniscule as this entire situation is making her. She hates it as much as the situation itself. Beside her, Momma D stifles a sob, and Ricky takes her hand, kissing her forehead.

Dr. Nichols, in the calm way she answered the previous inquiries that were starting to annoy her, nods her head. “This doesn’t cause permanent damage to your veins and tissue, and it’s not as severe as it could be. We can use surgery to restore blood circulation to your calves and alleviate your symptoms.”

“What triggered it?” she turns to her left, where Ricky’s face is grim. “This couldn’t have just, you know, _happened_. What made it happen?”

“Usually, chronic compartment syndrome is caused by the repetitive use of muscles,” she tells him. “Since Nini is, after all, an ice dancer, anything from there could have started it. Has Nini been over exerting herself lately?” That question is directed to Ricky, but she didn’t want him to answer. Her parents and Lola would not be alright if they knew how much stress she puts herself under.

She lies back down on the bed. “No more than the average ice dancer,” she says. “When the end goal is winning gold at the Olympics, it’s kind of hard to _not_ work hard, but I don’t overexert myself. At least, I don’t think I do. I’m used to the pain, I used to be in ballet.”

“She’s always been a hard worker,” Ricky interjects, “but she’s been putting much more on herself lately. Everything she does has to be perfect, and I _know_ it’s stressing her out.” She opens her mouth to interrupt, but he pushes forward. “Everything Nini does is for skating first, then everything else, then herself. She probably has a lot more pain than she’s letting on and hasn’t told _any_ of us.”

Dr. Nichols frowns. “Nini, you said you were feeling pain before? For how long?”

“Maybe a few years?” She bites her lip, thinking back to every moment her calves did a little more than ache. Her second Canadian Championships, World Juniors, the ISU Junior Grand Prix, Four Continents, World Championships, practice; the pain became a blur, really, a normalcy in her life that she never really had to think about until now. “Probably longer than that. Maybe since 2001 when we placed third in Hamilton.”

Ricky mutters, _“And you never told me,”_ under his breath, clearly hurt. He probably thinks she can’t hear him, but she can, and it makes her feel all the more guilty. Her heart, apparently damaged in more ways than one, squishes against her chest, eaten alive by guilt and slowly stilling, maybe because of a lack of blood flow.

“How long will I be out for?” she asks, then, because if this changes anything—if she screws up this season for them—

Dr. Nichols gives her a reassuring smile. “You would probably be on bed rest after surgery until December,” she says, “but even then, I don’t advise you to be on your feet and skating until a few months after that.”

“But it’s October now,” she protests, thinking about Skate Canada later this month and the Trophée Éric Bompard in early November. She’s costing them the first half of this season because of her stupid legs. “Are you sure there’s no other way? Something quicker?”

“Nini, you have to understand that surgery _is_ the fastest way to treat it,” the doctor tells her in that annoying patronizing voice. “Other options will take months, even years, to alleviate the pain. We’ll restore circulation to your calves, and after a few months of bed rest and check-ups, you can go back.”

She sighs, not daring to look at her mothers who probably agree with the doctor, or Ricky, who is most likely looking guilty and concerned, and instead focuses on Lola. Her grandmother gives her a soft smile, and Nini slumps, defeated. “When can I get the surgery?”

* * *

Later, when it’s just her and Lola in the hospital room, with her mothers grabbing food and Ricky being sent home for a shower and nap, her grandmother speaks to her. “How is the pain, My Nini?”

“Unbearable,” she replies back, miserable not because of the physical pain, but the fact that she’s let them all down. Ricky moved hundreds of kilometers to train for a season that he will miss out on. Her mothers have done so much for her and her skating for it all to be for nought. And her Lola, her strong, brave, beautiful Lola who always is kind and there for her. 

“Surgery is tomorrow. You should get some rest.”

“Lola,” she says, “what am I going to do now?”

“Make yourself feel better first, because you cannot be happy when you are in pain. Skating will wait a few months, and you will be back, doing what makes you happy.”

“I don’t know who I am without skating.” Her mind is blank, failing to grasp on any part of herself that is not interconnected with the sport that has become her lifeblood, the sport that failed her in return with the lack of blood flowing through her calves and the very fucking reason she can’t be out there, doing what defines her very soul in the neat little packages that make her up. 

Lola sighs. “Well, then it is your time to learn more about yourself. Become your own friend, My Nini, and you will learn what makes you happy outside of skating. You will learn more about yourself, and then, will find a way to love yourself for your faults and not just your successes.”

“I don’t even know if skating makes me happy.”

She doesn’t, really, and it’s been something rattling around in her mind like the last crayon in the box that no one wants because it’s broken. She never wanted to admit it, but with her dreams all but coming crashing down on her like the rails of London Bridge, she may as well give it up now. 

“Well then,” Lola shifts positions, easing her back, “now you know what to do. All I ever wanted you to do is to do what makes you happy, My Nini, and when you do that, my life will be complete and my heart will be full.”

She bites her lip, thinking a little. What _would_ she do without skating? Who is she without it? The next few months seem more daunting than before, because Nini Salazar-Roberts is an ice dancer who has dedicated her life to the sport that used to pump blood through her veins, but now devastated her beyond imagine. Her calves are trembling and in more pain than even imaginable from lifts and twizzles and over exertion. Everything that defined Nini Salazar-Roberts is gone. It died as soon as the first ache in her calves that she never noticed before started to form, and along with it goes her Olympic dreams. 

Her voice cracks a little. “I’m scared,” she tells her grandmother.

The woman says nothing, only hums a little bit, and places her hand on the top of Nini’s head, kissing it. “And that will be alright.”

* * *

It’s one month after her surgery and Nini is back in her childhood room in Ilderton. She spends most of it in agonizing bed rest, watching old television and listening to the radio, where she discovers an artist named Taylor Swift whose songs make her sob like a child. Ricky is back with his parents as well, choosing to practice by himself at the local rink where they first met, and he comes to visit every day.

She privately thinks that this may be the most time he’s willingly spent with her in, well, years, and maybe there is an upside to the shittiest thing that’s happened to her—to them—in years. 

She has a forest fire on her mind most days, restless and wanting to get back on her feet as soon as possible, but with her moms and Lola and Ricky and now, after reconnecting, Big Red all looking after her, she knows it’s nearly impossible without _everyone_ making it a big deal. So oftentimes, she sits in her bed, frustrated and wanting to go out and just breathe fresh air, or do that self-discovery stuff Lola was talking about back in that hospital in Michigan.

Her bed is large and her room is a meticulous pink, the furniture all white and reminiscent of a younger girl who wanted nothing more than to be a ballerina and some. She digs around her bedside table, trying to find _something_ —a book, maybe—that will get the boredom off her mind. Taylor Swift plays quietly on her CD player, with the bridge of _The Best Day_ filling the otherwise silent room. When her hand feels something, she pulls it out and almost gasps.

The book is small, a clean white with dust slowly collecting on it, and if she opens it, she knows she’ll see _The Diary of Nini Salazar-Roberts_ written in cursive pink. She left it behind after moving to Waterloo, deciding that she was too grown up for it. After making a split decision, she turns to the first page.

_February 7th, 1997_

_Dear diary,_

_Today Miss Claire decided that I could skate with a partner. His name is Ricky, which seems really silly, and he’s a hockey boy who’s two years older than me. And, I know hockey boys are mean and rude and stupid because they hate anyone who doesn’t play hockey, but Ricky seems nice. Maybe one day we’ll dance together like those skaters at the rink and do all those cool moves or the dancers in my snow globe._

_He wants to call me Nini though and says Nina is totally snobby, which is_ _not_ _true but Nini is really pretty, so I’m going to let him. I had to hold his hand today, and it was nice. A little sweaty though, which is only kind of gross._

 _Signed,_ _  
_ ~~_Nina_~~ _Nini Salazar-Roberts_

_—_

_July 19, 1997_

_Dear diary,_

_Ricky called me Ballernina today, which is really annoying and dumb. I think it’s because I’m going to the National Ballet School_ _finally_ _and he doesn’t want me to go, which is really weird because I’m almost going to be a ballerina! Mommas already helped me pack and everything! It seems scary though because if I do make it I would have to stop skating with Ricky, which would be really sad. He’s really, really nice and gives great hugs._

_What should I do?_

_Signed,_ _  
_ _Nini Salazar-Roberts_

_—_

_September 27, 1998_

_Dear diary,_

_Ricky Bowen is so stupid. He shows up to practice late, then expects me to not get mad? Seriously? And then he spends it fooling around. He called me a b-word, something Momma C says is really bad, and I called him a jerk. I think it’s because he’s embarrassed of me because I’m younger than him, which is not fair because I could be embarrassed of him for being a hockey boy. Ugh, he’s so dumb. I hate him._

_Signed,_ _  
_ _Nini Salazar-Roberts_

_—_

_January 19, 1999_

_Dear diary,_

_We won our first national competition today! Our routine was so, so good, and the medal is_ _so_ _shiny! Suzanne and Paul said that they’ve never seen anything like that from us and that they’re super impressed. Ricky hugged me after and said, “Good job, kiddo.” It was sweet, but I’m not a kid. I’m only two years younger than him! There’s talk about us moving to Waterloo, but that’s really scary. I don’t think I can do it because I’ll miss Lola and Mommas too much._

_Anyways, I hope we keep getting better and working well together because I haven’t told Ricky yet, but I want to go to the Olympics one day and win gold. I think we can do it!_

_Signed,_ _  
_ _Nini Salazar-Roberts_

Nini stifles a sob, rereading the last line of that entry. _I want to go to the Olympics one day and win gold. I think we can do it!_ Her eyes keep combing over the words of her younger, much more naïve ten year-old self. _The Olympics. We can do it!_ _Maybe before,_ she thinks ruefully as tears of pain and broken dreams and being stuck in her damn bed for a month well up in her eyes, _but not now. It’s impossible now._

In an attempt to shove her diary back to her bedside table, she knocks something over blindly. It shatters on the ground, probably bringing everyone to come to her room, but she doesn’t care as she sees her shattered snow globe and the figurines that never stopped spinning—not even after all these years—on the floor. The male is intact, mostly, but broken off from the female, who lays in pieces.

She slips off her bed in an attempt to clean it up, running her hands over broken glass while hitching breaths make their way up her throat. Her hands are bleeding from the shattered figurines and broken dreams as she tries to clean up the snow globe the best she can. The attempts are all futile—red, red blood stains the pure white of the furniture from a girl with big dreams and no reality as the woman, no, still a girl, with reality crashing down on her in incandescent rocks and dreams that are impossible, attempts to clean up the mess her idealism left her. 

It doesn’t work.

She stares helplessly at the mess she created and amplified with tears dripping from her eyes, hiccups making its way through her throat and snot coming from her nose, and collapses on her bed frame, unable to move her legs of stone, and picks up the broken figurine. The paint never faded, and the dancer’s delicate features were spared in the fall, but her bottom half is distorted, devastated into millions of pieces she will never find. She throws the dancer at the wall, feeling only a little bit of satisfaction as the figurine is crushed from the force of the throw and the wall.

Only _White Horse_ plays in the background, but she can’t hear it. Her ears are ringing.

“Nini?” her eyes drift from the mess and wander to her door, where Ricky stands with bags in his hand. His eyes assess the damage, mouth opening and closing as he takes in the magnitude of destruction her rage and grief have created. _He was always a bad actor,_ she thinks, and it makes her feel a little bit better. “Oh Nina Ballerina.”

He drops the bags and helps her up on a chair. She wordlessly plops down, staring down at her bloodied hands ashamed of the mess she created. He leaves for a second, coming back with hydrogen peroxide and gauze, and wordlessly cleans her hands. There is no glass in them, thankfully, but the hydrogen peroxide makes her wince as he cleans the cuts. After wrapping them up, he cleans up the broken snow globe, and she sits and watches, unable to do anything else.

When he’s finished, he sits on her bed, facing across from her, and utters quietly, “Do you want to talk about it?” He’s worried—she can tell—and his hands are still a little stained with _her_ blood. The catharsis in her room must have made him scared for her, but she’s not fine, hasn’t been for a while, and he _has_ to know that because he’s been her best friend for almost ten years and those years have to mean _something._

She shakes her head after words fail to come out of her mouth, and he nods, shutting off _Fearless_ and just watching her. The silence is no longer ringing, and as he studies her, she does the same. He looks tired. His eyes, usually bright and full of life, have dulled. There are bags under them that weren’t there before, and a shadow creeps around his jaw. He hasn’t shaved in a bit. He looks thinner than before, as if he lost a bit of muscle mass from just the month back home. 

A pang of guilt shoots through her, and not for the first time, she thinks that this is all her fault. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, almost ashamed to say it out loud because then, he has reasons to blame her. It’s all her fault on why they’re stuck in Ilderton and not practicing for the season. It’s her fault that they’re never going to get an Olympic gold. “I just— I just wanted to say that.”

“What do you have to be sorry about?” he asks, looking genuinely confused about her previous statement. He’s probably trying to make her feel better, because he blames her. He _should_ blame her. Even she blames herself. Somehow, he catches it, maybe from her poker faces that have been getting worse and worse since the start of her exile in bed. “No, Nini, this isn’t your fault.”

“What are you saying? Ricky, _I’m_ the reason we’re not on the ice right now, practicing for the dream we’ve had since we were kids. It’s because of my stupid fucking calves that I’m here, stuck in the shittiest situation I’ve been in, and that you’re not hanging out with EJ and Gina at Arctic Edge. Why don’t you blame me?” Her voice breaks, wavering as she adds on, “I blame me.”

He moves off her bed, taking her hand and squeezing it. “No, Nini, I don’t blame you. _Why_ would I blame you? These things happen, and _yes,_ it sucks, but _c’est la vie_. It’s life.” His voice gets harder, almost harsh. “Your calves are not your fault. The _scars_ are not your fault. Nini, this would have happened even if you tried your best to avoid it. I love skating, kiddo, don’t get me wrong, but the reason I love skating is because I do it with _you._ So don’t blame yourself. Things happen.”

“It’s hard,” she admits with tears in her eyes, and he’s holding her hand like she’s seven and he’s nine and he doesn’t know how to do it because she might break if he grips too hard. “I’m just sitting in my bed, doing everything in it, and the only times I can get on my feet and walk around it by someone helping me stand and letting me lean on them. And I can’t help but think that it's my fault that I’m in this situation. Alone in my thoughts. Doing nothing. Everything I hate.”

He’s silent for a bit, running his thumb on the back of her hand in a soothing motion. “Let’s go,” he says, helping her up off the seat. Before she opens her mouth to protest, he tacks on, “I’ll be with you every step of the way. I promise.”

Somehow, they manage to get down the stairs and into his car, when after what seems like forever, he pulls up in a forest and helps her out. It’s an awkward process; she’s basically leaning on him while hobbling every step of the way, but each step hurts just a little less. By the time he helps seat her down on the grass, she stares out.

They’re on a cliff overlooking the city. London at night is beautiful—with street lights lit and buildings gleaming against the dark, dark sky. If Nini was sentimental, she would say that London was like a kingdom, and that the lights shone just for her and Ricky. But she’s not. That part of her died years ago. “It’s pretty,” she comments, carefully moving her legs up and resting her chin on her knees. “I can’t believe I haven’t seen this before.”

“We haven’t been in Ilderton to stay for a long time,” he notes. The lights from the city seem to highlight his features, giving him an ethereal glow. “Red showed me this. Said it was the best spot in the town.”

She hums. “He’s right. London looks beautiful up here.”

And like most days now, they sit in comfortable silence, just with each other. It’s peaceful here, as the wind blows leaves from their trees, and how the forest behind them slowly starts to make its way from fall to winter. There’s not much that needs to be said. They know everything about each other, but maybe they don’t know themselves. 

“Back at the hospital, I told Lola I don’t know who I am without skating,” she starts. He looks over at her, not so much as shocked but just a little concerned. “I remember thinking about anything that defines me other than this sport, and then I realize that maybe I don’t love it as much as I think I should. If I even like it.” She laughs a little, rocking back and forth off her spine. “I was supposed to use this time to find myself, whatever that means, but instead, I spent it feeling sorry for myself.”

He says nothing for a bit, just watching the view. “You still have time,” he points out. “You’re not cleared for another month, maybe even a month and a half.”

“I don’t know.” The wind howls in the back. “I just keep thinking, what would I do without skating? Who would I be without it? Because for so long, my entire world was the sport, and then, _nothing_. It’s gone.”

“You can still get it back. _We_ can still get it back.”

She smiles ruefully at him. “We’ll try.” She doesn’t sound like she believes it. “So, I’ve been playing a game in my head that’s called _What would you do in a life without skating?_ And it’s not _fun_ , not at all, but it’s enlightening and keeps me busy while my calves heal.”

“What would you do?” His question is soft, a little meek and so unlike him, but the past month has been about unlearning and relearning everything she thought she wanted, and maybe that makes room for change.

She shrugs. “I would probably be a ballerina, dancing in pointes and tutus instead of skates and bodysuits,” she starts, thinking about a little girl with big dreams and no reality. “And even though I’m a ballerina, I would be at school full time for psychology, because I want to help people sort through their emotions, their trauma, and their experiences even when I can’t help myself.” She thinks of her thirteen year old self, off on a new journey with no familiars or anchors, so she makes a new one in a fifteen year old boy who doesn’t even know himself. “I would have time for friends and family, and take time to do things I enjoy.” Lola’s smiling face telling her that she just wants her to be happy, and her moms asking her if skating is _really_ what she wants comes to mind. “And I’d fall in love one day with someone who’s with me and loves me just as much as I love them.”

She turns to him, watching the light reflect in his hazel eyes, and wonders what he’s thinking about. She wants to tear down the walls he seems to have with everyone, even her. She wants to know why he seems so sad lately, why there are bags under his eyes. She wants to know why he’s not telling her the things he used to, keeping them locked up in a little box only he has a key to. But instead, she settles for, “What about you? Who would you be without skating?”

“A hockey player, maybe in the NHL if I ever get good enough. Hey, I know you hate hockey players, but don’t judge.” His eyes are soft, but there’s a hint of rawness under there, and it’s a small victory to have one of his walls fall.

She smirks. “Someone convinced me that they weren’t all too bad.” He cracks a smile at that.

“I’d spend more time helping out at the skate shop, designing skates and helping kids try on their first pair. I’d help Aunt Claire with teaching new skaters, because it makes me really, really happy seeing them start the sport for the first time.” She smiles, thinking of his little cousins who give them the biggest smile she’s ever seen on his face. “I’d have more talks with my dad, and cook more with my mom. And,” his eyes turn onto her, staring straight into her soul, “I would end up with someone I love who loves me just as much as I do them. They’ll be kind, stubborn, ambitious, but one of the most loving people who do everything for everyone else and never think about themselves.”

“That sounds nice,” she whispers back. “Maybe in that fantasy, I’ll learn to love skating again.”

The look he gives her seems to have mended her shattered soul, slowly but surely through the new scars on her legs, and it’s nothing compared to what he says next. “And we’ll learn how to love skating again together.”

* * *

When they get back to Canton and are settled back in their rooms with the Diamandises, she gets ready to go to sleep. It’s December now, and the snow is falling, but more importantly, tomorrow is her first day back on ice. Before she turns off the light and calls it a night, she notices something glinting on her night stand.

It’s a snow globe, better than the one she had in her room. The figurines are not dancing with shoes, this time, but skates are delicately crafted at the bottom of the man and woman, who circle around each other. They spin and spin, and snow is falling, and she sobs as she watches them go ‘round and ‘round.

Beside the snow globe is a note written in a familiar scrawl. 

_Let’s learn how to love skating again together._ _  
_ _x R_

* * *

The night leading up to the 2010 Canadian Championships is full of tension. Nini has thrown up three times and counting, ignoring the ache in her throat as her heart hammers in her chest. They’re favourites to win, as they’ve won this title twice before now, and logically they should be shoo ins for the Olympics. But that doesn’t stop it from making it any less nerve wracking.

It’s day 1, and Salazar/Bowen place first and score a 43.98 in the compulsory dance. Nini throws up twice that night.

It’s day 2, and Salazar/Bowen place first and score a 70.15 in their original dance to _Farrucas._ After eating a salad, Nini throws up in her hotel bathroom while listening to _Fearless_ by Taylor Swift.

And finally, it’s day 3, and nerves are through the roof. Their spot for first and the Olympics is all but guaranteed, and with Jenn and Zach cheering them on past the boards, there’s not much to be worried about. Her family—Momma C, Momma D, and Lola—are all there, supporting her and Ricky as they gear up for their free dance. 

Her dress is gold, billowy and innocent looking, and Ricky is bouncing nervously with his toe pick. They’ve aced the other two dances. They’ve got this. 

On the ice, after _“From Western Ontario, Nini Salazar-Roberts and Ricky Bowen!”_ is announced, she takes her place. Ricky is behind her—she knows it—and as the opening beats to Mahler’s Fifth Symphony play, it all clicks.

She can feel Ricky’s hands come to her neck, and she turns, skating backwards as he takes her hand and places a kiss on it. The routine is innocent—a tale of two lovers madly in love, with the sickly sweet attributes of first love and the honeymoon phase. With elements taking out directly from ballet, Nini is right where she belongs.

The first lift that has her get twisted around Ricky’s head has the crowd cheering, and if the adrenaline wasn’t already pumping in, she would be grinning. But Nini is playing a role now—a girl madly in love with her partner, completely besotted, and happier than she could ever imagine.

Every move in is sync, and when the dance finally ends with her back resting on Ricky’s knee, the crowd roars.

After bowing appropriately and blowing kisses to the crowd, they make their way to the Kiss and Cry, where Jenn and Zach give them tight hugs. Waiting for the results shouldn’t be as painful as it is, but every second passed is absolutely agonizing until—

“The free dance score for Nini Salazar-Roberts and Ricky Bowen is 107.82, for a total score of 221.95, setting Canadian records for the free dance and combined total scores. With that, Nini and Ricky are in first place, and are one of two teams competing in the 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympics.”


	2. free dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nini Salazar-Roberts must be fantastic. She must be flexible. She must be the best damn partner the world has ever seen to make up for the season she fucked up and missed if she wants a fighting chance for this Olympics. Olympic gold has been her dream—_ their dream _—since she was thirteen and he was fifteen and maybe even before that, and she will do everything in her power to see that dream fulfilled, even if it’s the last of her skating career._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the **free dance** is the second dance performed in an ice dance competition. skaters have the choice of creative liberty and freedom, allowing them to choose the sequences and music in the program. the dance expresses the dancers' rhythm and displays their creativity, often telling a story within the performance. every surface of the ice must be covered during this program.
> 
> i did NOT mean for this to take as long as it did... but when miss olivia rodrigo announced drivers license i gave myself a short break (okay, it was an almost two month break but sue me, the majority of the world took one too). it is also miss rodrigo's eighteenth birthday, so please wish her all the love in the world, she deserves it! it’s also been 3 years since virtuemoir won gold at pyeongchang, so i am crying extra hard today!
> 
> this chapter is 22k words long..... oh my, but please enjoy! also shout out to everyone who harassed me to get this done, this is for you (you know who you are). also, thank you so much for all the comments for last chapter. they were excellent motivator to write. let me know what you think of this act!

The night after the night of the Canadian Championships, Nini Salazar-Roberts finds Ricky Bowen in a bar kissing a faceless girl. 

She shouldn’t have been out of her hotel room. After every competition, Nini spends the following night and day studying and watching what they did well, and what they need to improve on. Now, with the Olympics looming over their heads for the foreseeable month, they _definitely_ needed to be on the top of their game. The season off because of Nini’s legs set them back—Lily and Howie have improved immensely during that time.

Nini Salazar-Roberts must be fantastic. She must be flexible. She must be the best damn partner the world has ever seen to make up for the season she fucked up and missed if she wants a fighting chance for this Olympics. Olympic gold has been her dream— _their dream—_ since she was thirteen and he was fifteen and maybe even before that, and she will do everything in her power to see that dream fulfilled, even if it’s the last of her skating career.

So while meticulously taking notes with her notebook and pen—pink, the only one sitting in her travel bag—she’s interrupted by insistent knocking on her door, even though there’s a _Do Not Disturb_ tag on her handle that evidentently doesn’t mean anything. She ignores it, turning back to watch the lift where Ricky spins her around his head, pausing at her entry into the lift. Before she can write anything down, the knocking comes back.

“Come on Nini, open the door! I know you’re in there!” It’s Gina, who sounds like she's either walking on air or EJ slipped her some of the Ricky-EJ proclaimed _‘good stuff’_. Gina, who knows about NIni’s careful post-competition routine, is knocking on her door. “ _Neens!_ If you don’t open the door right now, I’m getting EJ to knock it down!”

There’s a fit of giggles on the other side of the door, much too maniacal to be Gina, so she knows that the taller girl would make use of her threat. Defeated and frankly, a little annoyed, Nini drops her pen on the table with a _clack_ and makes her way to the door, turning the handle to see a triumphant Gina and rather… _out of it_ EJ.

“Neens!” Gina Porter—who, mind you, does _not_ squeal—does so, pulling her into a hug that constricts her lungs. “We’re going to the Olympics! And to the bar!”

She laughs, gasping a little for breath as Gina squeezes her harder. “I know! I was there when it was announced!” She taps weakly on her arm. “Let me breathe, Gi!”

“Sorry,” Gina giggles. Her dark eyes, usually clear and sharp, are hazy, and her mouth is curled into a grin so much unlike her usual smirk. She is already a little buzzed, probably from EJ’s secret stash of booze he brings for post-competitions even though all of them are of legal drinking age in Canada, and has continued celebrating from the morning. It’s understandable—Ricky did the same thing too. “I’m just _so happy!_ We’re going to the Olympics! Together! At home!”

She smiles softly, steadying her friend as she tips over. EJ is leaning against the wall, most likely not hearing a word going on, and Nini is left with two pair skaters who clearly aren’t in the right mind to be just _hanging out_ in the middle of a hotel in London. Her moms wanted her to stay with them in Ilderton, but Nini declined, wanting a little space to herself. She regrets it now. “We are, Gi. Do you want to come in? I don’t think we should be going to the bar right now.”

“But _Nini_ ,” she drags out the double syllables, giggling a bit as she does so, “I want to get you to be _happy_ for one second and just _relax_. And smile. You don’t smile anymore.”

The grin slides off Nini’s face. She doesn’t hold it against Gina, who is clearly inebriated and not in control of what she’s saying. Still, it stings a little, but Nini holds on a smile. “That’s not true! I smile all the time. I smiled when we qualified for the Olympics! I’m smiling right now!”

Gina shakes her head. “Not _real_ smiles.” She brings her hands to Nini’s cheeks, pulling her lips up into a smile-like shape. “See? Fake smile. You’ve been so _sad_ lately and I want you to be _happy_. ‘Jay and ‘icky want you to be too.”

“Well, tell Ricky and EJ I _am_ very happy. I just, want to be prepared, you know?” Thinking about her partner, she turns to Gina. “Hey, do you know where Ricky is anyway?”

The other woman’s mouth forms a pout, scrunching her nose. “There was a pretty singles skater down at the hotel bar, and I was about to pick her up until ‘Jay threw up. ‘Jay sucks.” Gina laughs a little, though. “‘icky is good for you, Neens! He’s totally in love with you, and you’re in love with him. You two are just _gross._ Just fuck it out of your system or start dating, ‘Jay and I have bets in place.” Her hands fly to her mouth. “ _Oops!_ I wasn’t supposed to say that!”

“Ricky’s in love with me?” she asks. _No_ , it’s impossible. He sees her as his kid sister, always calling her _kiddo_ or _Nina Ballerina_ or something along the lines of cheesy and teasing and what skating partners call their partner whom they see as a sister. He doesn’t get a flutter in his chest every time they hold hands, or meet each other’s eyes when there’s a joke both of them think of at the exact same time. He doesn’t lay awake at night, remembering her eyes and the crinkle of her mouth when she smiles, or how the world stops when they look at each other. 

Ricky Bowen sees Nini Salazar-Roberts as his kid sister. And it’s fine. It’s _always fine._

Gina nods. “Told me so himself.” After an arch of Nini’s brow, she elaborates, albeit clumsily. “Last season after Four Continents and you were upset because you guys placed second behind Lily and Howie, we went to the bar and got hammered with ‘Jay. Told me he didn’t like seeing you sad. I asked him why and he said he is in love with you but I’m not supposed to say.” She shrugs though, throwing her hands up in the air in a dance-like motion. “But I did anyway. _Whoo!_ ”

She bites her lip, thinking about all the dances they did together, all the years they’ve spent as partners and best friends, but she never thought he would put actual _romantic_ feelings in there. On ice, they play a role—scorned lovers, two people completely besotted with one another, unrequited love—but none of it is _real._ Or, it shouldn’t be. Any program in skating is an act, and yes, some pairs do end up married with kids and the whole fucking package, but often, they end platonically because _that’s how it works._ That’s how it should work.

A good ice dancer, a good _partner,_ would not be selfish and take this news as a grain of salt. A good partner, one that Nini has tried and tried and tried to be since she was seven, would put the partnership, the sport, over her own wants. But Nini is _tired_ of being a good partner all of the time. She wants to be selfish. Just this once.

“Where is Ricky right now?” Her voice is strong, doesn’t waver at all, and it’s the most confident she’s been since her calves swept her career from right under her. She takes it as a good sign when her heart beats only a _little_ faster, pushing blood to her head and brain which _totally aren’t freaking out right now._

Gina looks out to the side, eyes hazy and smile distant. “Um,” there’s a groan from EJ, who throws up on the hotel’s carpet, as Nini winces, “the bar! We left him at the bar after we called him down because ‘Jay barfed!”

She bites the inside of her lip, before leading Gina into her room and sitting her on her bed, putting an empty container from the bathroom beside the bed. After that, she lugs EJ into the bathroom of her room and places him beside the toilet. Logically, she should stay and check on him, but Nini’s being selfish today and this will only take a few minutes, and they’ll be fine for that span of time. 

“You guys will be okay?” she asks, just to make herself feel better, and there’s a giggly _‘yup!’_ from Gina and retching sounds from EJ, so she counts that as a sign to move forward and jogs out of her hotel room, shutting the door and placing the key in her pocket. She manages to slip in the elevator door before it closes and pressed _G_ for the ground floor, and then she _really_ gets time to think.

In which, she comes to the conclusion that she didn’t really think it through. First off, she’s wearing an oversized t-shirt and baggy dark Roots sweatpants, not really dressed for the _“I’m declaring my love for you”_ speech that happens in rom-coms _all_ the time. Second, she’s taking this information from Gina, who usually is the most trustworthy person in Nini’s life to give such information, but Gina is currently laying in her hotel room absolutely hammered, so that factor may not pan out. Thirdly, how the hell is she going to do this? Rom-coms aren’t exactly real life, and even if they were, they sure as hell aren’t Nini’s life. Should she just be up front? Or ease into it? 

She groans, placing her head in her hands. It was much, much easier in _When Harry Met Sally_ or _Dirty Dancing._ That, and she’s a complete idiot.

 _I should turn back now,_ she thinks as she heads towards the bar after the elevator doors open. _This is a bad, bad idea Nini, and you know it. What do you think is going to happen? He’s going to run toward you and kiss you senseless in the middle of a bunch of drunk people?_

But there’s a part of her, the romantic who is a sucker for confessions, the one who loves love and loves happiness and believes that unicorns exist and Zeus really did split the souls of mankind and created soulmates. This side believes in true love, believes that love at first sight is _more_ than being struck by Cupid’s arrow, that it’s a deep and profound connection between two people that can never really go away. 

And it’s that side that leads her through the throng of sweaty, messy people laughing and taking swigs of their drinks as she navigates through the bar. She really hasn’t been to them often, preferring to drink at home or not drink at all, but the social scene is lively as many of the skaters from the Canadian Championships are there, celebrating the competition being over and making new friends. She sees the second place pair by the bartender, and the girl, whom she doesn’t remember the name of, gives her a nod. She smiles back at them. 

Her eyes shift over the scene, looking for him in a sea of people, and just when she’s about to give up and call it quits because _come on, this is ridiculous and you’re going to ruin your relationship with him_ , she spots familiar curls and hears a laugh that she knows anywhere. Her heart, which was acting _so well_ before, speeds up, and she can feel the tell-tale signs of nervousness as she approaches him. 

He doesn’t see her yet, and that’s fine, because she’s going to get his attention soon, but as she gets closer into range, she sees a girl with dark hair beside him, twirling said hair before grabbing him in and smashing her lips to his. 

Nini’s heart _sinks sinks sinks_ as she watches him reciprocate the kiss, grabbing the back of her head and pulling her closer until she’s practically in his lap and it’s absolutely _obscene_ for a public place. She gives him the decent and respectful response and looks away, ignoring the fresh stab of jealousy that twists through her heart like a knife.

She’s so stupid. _Of course she’s so stupid._ Because why else would Ricky Bowen see her as anything other than his kid sister, whom he’s grown up with and practically knows everything about—that topic, actually is up for debate, but generally everything. She shouldn’t see him as anything _more_ than a skating partner and best friend, because that not only is a disservice to their partnership, but could jeopardize their programs and hurt their routines. 

But that still doesn’t stop the sting from hurting any less. The feelings she got when watching them—the ugly, harsh and unforgiving hold of anger, hurt, and sorrow coursing through her veins and making it impossible to stand on her legs without having her calves scream out in pain made it harder to walk away from them. At the same time, though, it numbed her. Her heart steeled up, stopped pumping the lifeblood that kept her calves painless and movable, and sometimes she thinks she must be so messed up that her emotional pain manifests itself into physical and extremely present aches and gashes and makes her weep all the same. 

Nini Salazar-Roberts must be a good partner. She must always put their partnership over her wants and needs. She must always choose to do the right thing, because without that, she might jeopardize the opportunities they have leading up to Vancouver. Olympic gold is the dream, _has been_ the dream for over a decade now, and she’s not going to be the one to screw it up. She _can’t_ be the one to screw it up, because it will destroy her.

So, she spends the night after the night of the Canadian Championships not studying, not sleeping, and not talking to Ricky, instead taking care of a puking EJ and a happy, but clearly drunk Gina.

And it’s _fine._

* * *

It takes her a while to pick up the phone, after Gina is tucked in Nini’s bed and EJ is propped in a comfortable position in the arm chair. Nini has situated herself on the floor before dialling Lola’s number through her Blackberry, holding her breath as the phone dials. It’s 2 AM in the morning and totally unfair to expect her grandmother to pick up, but she just has to get this off her chest. She _needs_ to.

“Hello?” Lola’s groggy voice filters through the microphone. “My Nini, what’s wrong? You are not usually calling me at this time in the night.”

She swallows. “Hi Lola,” her voice is wavering, weak, and she can barely hold it together, “I think I almost did something bad.”

“Oh, My Nini,” Lola says, her voice an ever-so comforting presence that’s _there_ but _not,_ making Nini feel just a little bit better, “surely what you almost did couldn’t have been so horrible.”

She shakes her head as if Lola could see her through the phone. “I almost told Ricky I was in love with him,” she admits as a lone tear slides down her cheek, “and the worst part is, I think I _am_ in love with him. No, I know I’m in love with him. And I know he doesn’t love me back in that way.”

Lola is silent for a while, sighing. “Oh, Nini. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine, Lola, really,” she tells her, “it was stupid of me to try to tell him in the first place. Thank god the random girl kissed him before I could.” She lets out a bitter laugh. “But I’m fine, you know, I promise you. I just can’t believe I was so _stupid_ to do that.”

“You weren’t being stupid,” Lola says, “My Nini, you were following your heart. And that is what I wish for you—to be happy. Ricky makes you happy, no?”

She thinks of snowball fights and races at the rink. She thinks of choreography sessions and him imitating a ballerina. She thinks of him and her overlooking London, where the city lights shined just for him and her. She knows the answer. She doesn’t even have to think about it. “Yes, he makes me happy. _Of course_ he makes me happy. I’m in love with him. But I can’t tell him, Lola. I just can’t.”

Her grandmother hums, something she always does while thinking. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

Embarrassingly enough, she balks out a laugh. “He rejects me and we can never work together again, leaving us to fail miserably at the Olympics and crush our dreams more so than they’ve already been because of my legs.”

“Alright then,” Lola remarks, “if you think it is best, then don’t do it. But My Nini, please _do_ try to do what makes you happy. I know that you will always put skating first—your partnership first—but that puts a toll on your body and mind. One day, I’m scared you won’t be able to handle it.”

“I’ll be fine Lola,” she swears, “I promise.”

There’s a beat of silence between them. “You’re never going to tell him.” It’s not a question.

“No,” she admits, “I don’t think I will. I don’t think it’s a smart move in the long run. Feelings complicate things. We don’t need it right now.”

There’s a sigh from the other side of the phone. “Are you sure you can do this? I know you can, My Nini, but will you be happy with yourself? With him?’

“Happiness is arbitrary,” she states as if she’s trying to convince herself and not her grandmother, “it comes and goes. Some days I’ll be happy, some days I won’t. My happiness will not rely on a single person, Lola, and I promise you that one day, I’ll be completely happy with myself.”

“One day,” Lola sounds tired, “you will have to put yourself first. I want you to put yourself first and make yourself happy, not wait until the moment arises and you are. Please My Nini, I do not ask for much. You don’t smile anymore. You do not laugh unless it’s from sadness, anger, or frustration. You don’t sing anymore or dance around your room. Why are you so troubled?”

 _I don’t know,_ she wants to say. _I don’t know why I’m so troubled. I don’t know how to make myself happy._

A beat later, unable to say the words on the tip of her tongue, she replies instead, “I’ll try to be happy, Lola, I promise. Now, get some sleep. I’m sorry for waking you up.”

“Good night, My Nini. Please sleep well. I will talk to you in the morning.” Her grandmother doesn’t sound convinced, but as if knowing that she will not get any further with Nini on this topic, at least for the night, she steps back. Nini couldn't be more grateful for that.

“Night, Lola. I love you.”

* * *

Knowing that she is in love with Ricky Bowen doesn’t change anything. Nini Salazar-Roberts is a good partner. She is professional, cool, and a friend that would not risk her friendship or Olympic gold on a trivial little fact that would eventually fade away. So even if her heart does beat a little faster when Ricky whispers something funny in her ear, or when they hold hands it does make her feel a little dizzy, she squashes that piece of her down into a small little cube locked into a small little box with a key thrown away. 

Ice dancing is all about _touch._ It’s emotions, it’s spinning a narrative for the audience to fall deep into, but it’s not _real._ It’s not a perfect snow globe where the ice dancers go ‘round and ‘round, always circling each other, so very in love. And if Nini deludes herself into thinking that the roles they play—the _fictional_ roles they play—are real, then, well, she’s not a good ice dancer after all. Or a good partner at that.

She has her own apartment now in Canton, having moved out of the Diamandises after World Championships last year, and Ricky’s just happens to be a floor above. It’s not entirely coincidental, seeing as their parents were much more comfortable with them closer together, but it’s nice to carpool with him and well, _see him_ outside of practice.

The girl from the bar, Reagan, has become a fixture within Ricky and subsequently Nini’s life, seeing as they started dating shortly after the Championships. Reagan is a singles skater who’s been to the Olympics in 2006, won gold in the single skaters category, and is unfairly gorgeous with unbroken legs and scarless skin. Nini thinks that she’s nice enough—a little fake, if anything, with a smile that always seems _too_ large, dark brown eyes that seem a little _too_ innocent, and a voice that always seems _too_ agreeable. 

But that could also be because Nini passes by Reagan on the way on the gym sometimes, from elevators to quick _hellos_ in the lobby, and there’s a clench of white hot _something_ —which she will _not_ admit it’s jealousy because it’s _not_ thank you very much—and it’s always awkward. The other woman is nice enough, sharp and attentive and always asking how Nini’s doing in the _god awful annoying voice of hers_ , and always nods along and compliments Nini. There really isn’t something _to_ expect from the way Reagan acts to her: Nini is Ricky’s skating partner, maybe best friend (although, Big Red or EJ would surely take the cake over her), and there’s nothing written within the partner-bound code that _prompts_ Reagan to be nice to Nini because, well, Nini isn’t Ricky’s life. She doesn’t dictate what he does, where he goes, who he’s dating, and she _shouldn’t_ , because that would cross far too many lines and Ricky is grown up enough to be making his own decisions and mistakes— _not saying_ Reagan will be a mistake. Ugh.

And there’s really _no ground_ for Nini being mad at Ricky for dating, since he’s been doing it for years now and she’s never voiced objections before, and she _knows_ she’s being absolutely ridiculous, so she bottles it up (like always) and smiles her way through everything. It’s what a good partner who’s in love with their partner who doesn’t love them back does, or what she thinks they do, because she hasn’t heard of this before, and Nini Salazar-Roberts will be the _best_ damn partner there is. Besides, there are more important things to think about, like, _oh_ , the _Olympics._

There’s no use crying over spilt milk, which is the energy they’re taking into training for Vancouver for the next month. Turin has gone and passed, and there are no more “what could have beens” and “what ifs”, since there are evidently much more pressing matters that require their full attention and devotion. Jenn has cracked the whip with Zach analyzing each movement, and each time they rehearse their original dance, arguably their weakest program of the three, Nini swears up and down that they could skate the entirety of _Farrucas_ while blindfolded.

It doesn’t matter though. They placed second in their original dance and first in their free dance at the Grand Prix Final behind Lily and Howie. Nini wants to win the Olympics right at home. She _has_ to win the Olympics.

So what if it’s something to prove—to whom she doesn’t know yet, but it’s _something_ she has to do. After the surgery, after basically _giving up_ on a dream that has never seemed closer, she kissed Vancouver 2010 goodbye, but now… 

She laughs to herself quietly, in the dark of her apartment after a particularly gruelling practice. It’s just her, Gina and EJ practicing for the Olympics, Ricky out with Reagan, and she sits alone in the dark with nothing but Taylor Swift playing in the background. Photos of her and Ricky paint the walls, taunting her in her isolation, each smile and laugh frozen on sheets of film that were once blank jeering at her, friendly grins turning into sneers. 

Her snow globe from Ricky sits on her table, and as the dancers skate around each other in the same pattern they always go, she realizes that from some angles, the dancers are situated further apart than she thought previously. From a distance, the figurines look almost inseparable, closer than ever to the casual eye, but as you get closer, you realize that they were never near each other to begin with. 

_Let’s learn how to love skating again together,_ she thinks, watching them spin ‘round and ‘round as she sips some white wine. _What a load of bull._

The sad thing is that she thinks she does love skating again. She thinks she loves the scrape of the ice beneath her feet, the movement of air circling around her, and the feeling of being on her two feet and not feeling an ounce of pain. She thinks she loves how she learns how to love her calves again, with the white lines—battle scars—painting a tale of regret, heartbreak, and, maybe, just maybe, _redemption_ . She thinks she loves floating to the beat of the music, how every soft plink of the piano or thrum of a violin fills the rink as if it’s the Roy Thomson Hall and people are there for a field trip, this one being _her dance_ , and it’s easy to get lost in it and forget the real world. 

But he lied. They didn’t do it together. They haven’t done things together in a long, long time.

* * *

“What if I can’t get over Ricky?” she asks Lola in the dead of the night. 

There’s a pause. “I believe that you are strong, My Nini. I know that you can get through anything you put your mind to.” A sigh. “But, if you truly believe that you cannot, you either tell him, or find someone else to love, like yourself.”

“I’m trying, Lola.” Her voice is trembling and she doesn’t know why. “I will love myself eventually. I _know_ I will. It just takes time.”

Her grandmother’s voice is gentle, soothing, and patient, always waiting for Nini to finish and takes time to give her good answers. Lola is everything to Nini—even more so than Ricky Bowen. “I just want you to be happy and love yourself. Please, that’s all I ask.”

“And I will,” she promises, “I will. I won’t tell him, Lola, because the Olympics are in less than a month and I don’t want to mess anything up. I don’t need a great romance to make myself complete. I know I don’t.”

Her words ring in the silence, pandemonium within the gentle quietness that often occurs during these calls. They are hollow, broken, and split, splintering crashes in the stillness, and both women know that they are nothing more than empty. In all the work she is doing to try and convince her grandmother, she fails to convince herself.

* * *

There’s a day where they fly to Toronto to get press done for the Olympics. Nini is used to press, having done interviews since provincials with Ricky all those years ago in Woodstock, and she’s appeared on television many times for competitions, interviews, and the occasional advertisements. 

Still, there’s something about doing press for the _Olympics_ that really gets her heart pumping, and the array of cameras are almost dizzying as she and Ricky sit down at the table in front of overzealous reporters. Nini, used to dressing herself, was given a stylist beforehand, and is now dressed in soft pinks and white—maybe to capitalize on their free dance? Or the fact that this will be their Olympic debut and they’re the innocent Canadians? Whatever it is, Ricky’s stylist must have done the same, dressing him simply as well.

And sitting close to him, smiling together because this is what they _do_ —they’re projecting an image, the ever perfect Canadians who found salvation in each other after their fall from grace, and they smile because they’re _okay_. They can’t be a month from Vancouver and _not_ be okay, because that’s when Lily and Howie and the Russians can swoop in and take the gold right under their nose at home. At least, that’s what Nini is telling herself, because the weight on her shoulders only build up more and more and it takes ballerina discipline and her own will to make sure she does not crack like the display glass at the Olympic ice dance exhibit.

The questions are nothing out of the ordinary: “How does it feel to be one of the two teams representing your country in the Olympics?” one reporter asks after Nini manages to find her voice and shush the crowd, taking note of how people just seem to _quiet down_ when she talks, like there’s something she’s about to say that _matters._ It’s taking all she has to not be cocky about it, to not let it get to her head, because _square up little girl,_ _you’re playing in the big leagues now. Don’t screw up now. You_ ** _can’t_** _screw up now._

Even with that in mind, she can’t help the little smile come to her face, and after waiting for Ricky to say something—she has the habit to speak first, always a little over excitedly, and they had a fight about this days before—she bites. “It feels amazing,” she answers truthfully. “It’s a lot of pressure, because we _do_ want to win here at home,” this draws a laugh from the audience, “but we are so honoured to be representing Canada.”

“Odds have you 5 to 1 against the Russian team. After the Americans, Lily Keegan and Howie Ashman, beat you in the Grand Prix, you are placed as the third most likely team to win the Olympics after the Russians and Americans. How do you feel about that?” another asks, thrusting the camera closer to their face.

Nini bites her lip, unsure on how to answer this question. Lily and Howie—forever thorns in their side not only as competitors, but training partners as well—are always on the top of people’s minds when they think _ice dance._ To even be close to beating them again after her surgery, especially when the Americans won the Grand Prix Final back in December, feels surreal. There’s something crawling under her skin, something vindictive, viscous, and almost _bloodthirsty_ as she contemplates the question. She wants to win. She wants to be an Olympic champion. She _wants_ to beat them. 

Nini Salazar-Roberts has spent her life trying to be the _best._ The best ballerina, whose hair was always perfectly glued in a bun and whose spins are always the tightest, never a pointe out of place. The best student, pushing to work her hardest and always stay on top of work, even if skating is killing her, because she _needs_ an education since she can't skate forever. The best partner, who turns a blind eye to her own aching heart and stuttering breath, who would rather hold the weight of their failings, expectations, and tiredness on her own shoulders, even if she cracks and falls into the ice, before she would share it with him. 

But most importantly, Nini Salazar-Roberts has been working towards being one half of the best ice dancing team in the _world_ since she was nine and he was eleven and she gave up her dream of becoming a ballerina, tossing away baby pink pointes and bleeding feet for powder white skates and scarring calves. This isn’t one of those Lifetime stories to success, where people work hard until they _don’t,_ because Nini has never once stopped, not even when her calves threatened to make her collapse where she stood, and that has to mean something to someone. _It has to._

The question makes her head spin, and she can feel her heart pump the lifeblood through her veins as she prepares to answer the question, before Ricky jumps in and saves her from a potentially very mortifying response—because really, you have to be confident yet humble, more than enough yet have room for improvement, and the perfect poster person for your sport, and that’s the only way you’ll make it. 

Her partner, like always, is all of those things. Ricky in private is cocky. He is arrogant to the point of insufferable, where Nini wants to rip her hair out and scream at him because _they can’t be presumptuous now, they can’t._ He is an amazing skater, one better at following the beat of the music and losing himself to it, but sometimes it’s impossible to pull him out, and once he’s broken, it’s hard for him to stitch himself back together. Nini can’t hold the crazy glue and duct tape and the braces all together, but she _has to,_ because there is _no one else_ willing to do it, who _can_ do it, and it takes all she can to keep the ship from not crashing into the boards into millions of shattered snow globes. He _is_ the perfect Canadian athlete, a boy from a small town that grew up playing the _very Canadian_ sport of hockey. He’s a huge advocate for making sure all children have equal learning opportunities, the perfect son, the perfect boyfriend, and the perfect partner. 

Everything— _perfection_ —comes to him easier than it comes to her. Being the best comes to him the same way breathing in the oxygen that fills his lungs, pumps his heart, will be simpler and more effective than ten of Nini’s deepest ones. Every step he takes—lazy and relaxed because why would he need to be anything else?—is four of her carefully measured ones, and she can’t be the one to throw all caution to the wind, because then there’ll be no one to tether them down when the breeze becomes a storm and blows them all away. 

His answer, like him, comes as easy as air, as if he deliberated the question for many nights, but delivered in a way that shows that he is not overly pressed about this matter. It’s not a front, because Ricky is still one of the worst actors she’s ever met, but it’s a semblance of either false confidence or very, very real arrogance, as he responds, “We’re obviously not too happy about the standings, but I’ve always felt that being the underdog gives you a chance. There’s something about defying all expectations put on you that just feels like you’ve won a million bucks, or, well, the _Olympics,_ ” she finds herself laughing along with the reporters in the room, because he’s always been able to make her laugh, “and we’re excited about what’s coming. You aren’t ready.”

It’s a promise, she would realize after the press conference, when she and Ricky are whisked into a car and driven to yet another event. Not one to the press, but to themselves, to _her_ , because they aren’t ready for the Olympics. No matter how many times they perfect their programs, sync their twizzles, or master the goose lift, the performance won’t be the same as having all eyes of the globe on you in the rink at Vancouver. 

It’s a promise in a way that they’ll be ready together. 

They have to be. She doesn’t want to think about what would happen if they aren’t.

* * *

Flames flicker and go. Fire can fluctuate with a single breath of air, and if not controlled, will spread and run and grow, and all it leaves in its wake is ash and smoke. The orange-golden flames dance, crackling and sizzles as sparks spit out from the flickers, with threats of destruction in its wake, but also the promise of warmth and comfort. 

The duality of fire is one debated over for centuries. Prometheus himself found that humanity needed the golden tongues of the hearth of Olympus, and stole its soul, as well as his own, to ensure that the people got fire. The flames did not just bring warmth, but an age of development that would lead to humanity scaling into what we see today—busy, destructive, arrogant, and selfish. It lit candles on the mantles for lost soldiers to come home to their beloved. It cooked the food and ensured that the people could eat.

But it also produces fear and pain, with the trail of red embers and gold tongues and white shimmers leaving nothing behind but ash. It leaves burns, some only on the surface of the skin, but others deeper, with the loss of loved ones that are lost to the Underworld, where their fate is decided by the judges three of the God Hades. 

The Olympic Games started as a tribute to the king of the gods Zeus, and have developed into almost a myth— _almost_ —with children and athletes alike wishing that they could be there, for only then you know you’re worth _something._ A torch is lit in the ruins of the Peloponnese and travels all across the globe chasing Prometheus’ flame, until it ends up in BC Place with all eyes of Mother Earth and her children on it.

Her own are fixated on the torch, which cast the enclosure in a warm glow that chases away the darkness. The structure in the middle of the stadium is organic, with pure white beams leaning across one another like a slip and slide. She can hear the hitch of breath beside her, probably Ricky, who couldn’t stand with Reagan for a reason she really couldn’t care about (but she does) as the flames tip forward.

In almost an instant, the fire spreads quicker than Nini’s heart races, travelling and climbing up the beams as vines would, but these are no vines. They are brilliant—flashing orange and yellow and gold—enfluging the white in glorious warm pillars. There’s the excited screaming of the crowd, but she can’t hear any of it as she feels a hand make its way around hers, and she doesn’t need to turn to know it’s Ricky.

The lines are familiar, hands impossibly smooth despite the callouses. She could be blind, deaf, and mute, and still know him anywhere. 

Despite her better judgement, she squeezes his hand as they watch the light show together. The cauldron is blazing hot orange flames, with the crowd at its peak, but she can’t find herself to care as he strokes her hand with his thumb.

They’re at home.

And so, the 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympics begin.

* * *

That night, after one too many flutes of champagne, she breaks down crying in her apartment. 

They’ve got to win. She’s got to prove it to herself that they can win.

 _I want you to be happy,_ Lola’s words ring.

 _Lola,_ she thinks, _when I win Olympic gold, I’ll be happy then._

* * *

Snow falls softly on the balcony of Nini’s apartment at the Olympic village. She stands out, overlooking Vancouver from her spot on the balcony, watching the crowds clambering over one another to go to different events. She can see the lights of Whistler in the background, peaked even brighter and taller than the tallest skyscraper in the city, and the cheers that could be heard even from a distance.

It’s February 14th, 2010, and the third day of the 2010 Vancouver Olympics. The highlights of today include Canada taking home gold in the men’s moguls, which is the first medal they took, as well as the first gold medal won by the Canadians on their own soil. She can still hear the ringing of _O Canada_ all the way from the misty base of Whistler Blackcomb, and the clinks of glasses from her terrace. The entire country is alight, commemorating the first of _hopefully_ many more golds to come. Fingers crossed, she’s going to be one of those golds.

There’s knocking on her door, one insistent and impatient, and Nini puts down the express coffee she got from the cafeteria and locks the balcony. Her life these days are filled with anxious movements and anticipation, with her circle being on their toes now that the Olympics are finally here. All athletes and coaches are dialled to a hundred, on high sensory alert, and just keep _going and going and going,_ because once they stop, someone is going to run them over.

“Ballernina!” Ricky greets as she opens the door, a little flushed—probably from a few drinks—but jubilant nevertheless. He lets himself in, shoes thankfully rid of all snow, and is practically bouncing on his toes. “Do you have any condoms?”

She scrunches her nose in disgust. “Ew, Ricky, just _ew._ No, I don’t have condoms, and even if I did, I certainly haven’t actively looked for them. Sex isn’t my first priority here, you know.”

“Don’t be a prude kiddo,” he teases, ruffling her hair, which _was_ perfectly styled. She winces, not because of the hair—which bothers her too—but at the jibe. She’s not a prude, despite what people think about tightlaced Nini Salazar-Roberts. “Plus, Reagan is somewhere with the Canadian women’s hockey team—” her heart constricts, stopping the lifeblood through her veins and making her bones feel very, very cold, “—and it’s the short dance for pairs today. I thought you’d want to cheer on Gi and EJ.”

Her eyes run over him— _him_ , the perfect and unfairly unattainable man, with an attitude about him that’s just carefree and _relaxed_ , and a smile that is more blinding than all the lights in Vancouver. He’s dressed in a Team Canada sweater, hands tucked in the pocket of his sweatpants and mouth curled into that stupidly gorgeous half-smile of his, and her heart can’t take it with the stop and switch. It thumps now, against her chest to carve a place just for him, only him, and it makes her ache all the same. He has her, but she’ll never have him. 

She can never have him.

She blinks, shaking herself as Ricky arches an eyebrow, presumably at her silent musings, and she sends him a shaky self-assuring smile. “Yeah, sounds great,” her voice is steady, controlled, all the more perfect-partner Nini Salazar-Roberts. “Give me a second to close all the lights and then we’ll go.” 

He nods, helping himself to her kitchen as he quickly prepares tea. He knows his way around it better than she does—he’s the cook, the one who can make something other than scrambled eggs and doesn’t burn toast. There were times, when it was just the two of them, where he cooked for just them. He made some of her favourite dishes when she was homesick, chicken noodle soup when her periods were giving her hell, and they always laughed together over dinner. It’s nice to have him there, a little piece of home. He always insists on cooking when it’s just them, a way to show her that he cares about her. 

Her partner is a tea person, preferring green tea over coffee despite initial assumptions. He drinks it with a spoonful of honey, because he has a _massive_ sweet tooth, and will only drink Japanese green tea as a result of the Grand Prix Final being hosted in Japan a few years ago. Nini’s not the biggest fan of tea, having grown up on jasmine from her Lola and black from her mother, but Ricky’s just so _good_ at making it that it switches up her usual order of black coffee.

“Hope you made some for me,” she nudges him, checking her hair in the mirror one last time before turning around. She’s always been a little engrossed in ensuring that she appears the best she can, especially now that they are Olympians—medal or no—and with paparazzi around, it’s not such a bad thing. She’s matching him with the Team Canada sweater, but it’s tucked into grey Lulus she had lying around in her suitcase. 

He chuckles, handing her a to-go cup with the lid balanced on it, not quite on and therefore still steaming from the sides. “Always got you, Salazar.” 

The double meaning isn’t there, but it makes her smile nonetheless. They’ve always got each other’s backs, whether it’s on the ice with them dancing in a snow globe together, trips across the globe for competitions, break ups and heartaches, or just the little things, like cooking or making tea. For so long, it’s just been them against the world, working towards the goal of winning Olympic gold, and now that it’s in arm’s length—

Ricky slings an arm around her, cutting out of her train of thoughts. “I can hear you thinking.” His breath is hot on her ear, the faint scent of beer filling the air, and she scrunches her nose. “You don’t need to for another six days.”

“I know,” she sighs, locking the door behind her as she makes a weak attempt to get his arm off her shoulder. “Where were you before this, anyway? It’s only 4, you shouldn’t already be drinking.”

They make their way down the hallway, waving at fellow teammates as they pass by. “Women’s hockey was playing at 12,” he explains as he opens the door for her with a mock bow. She laughs, swatting his arm. “The States against China.”

“Still doesn’t explain the beer,” she jibes as she waves a taxi over. “Pacific Coliseum,” she tells the driver, who nods before starting the car. 

He rolls his eyes. “I was doing a drinking game with Howie for the game. Every time China scores, I drink, and every time the States score, he drinks.”

“And China won?” she asks doubtfully. The States, as much as she loathes to admit it, has a good women’s hockey team. Nothing that can _touch_ the Canadians, but something substantial and respectable. They have about a 9-to-1 chance for gold, or whatever Ricky prattled about the other day. “That doesn’t seem likely.”

His laugh is clear, still a little boyish for a 22 year old man, but it makes her heart thrum and hands ache, because she’s his and he’s not. It’s unfair, really, because Nini Salazar-Roberts has been working for her entire life to be an Olympian, but no one really explained to her what it meant to fall in love with her partner and not be able to have him. The urge to hold him, to put her hand on his heart for a non-ice dance related scenario is almost too much, but she resists. It’s not her place. 

“China lost 12 to 1. Howie, as nice as he is, doesn’t know hockey for shit.”

She scoffs. “Then why do you smell like that?”

“I may have taken some extra shots throughout.” He looks down at her sheepishly, as a child does when caught doing something wrong by their parents. “You should have seen the other guy, though, he’s absolutely _wasted._ ”

“I can imagine,” she drawls, glancing at the passing Vancouver landscape outside, “but what were you doing with Howie anyway? It’s so close to the ice dance competition, shouldn’t he be, I don’t know, devising ways to destroy us? Not fraternizing with the enemy.”

Ricky, for his part, looks absolutely appalled and frankly, a little offended on behalf of their ice dance rival. “We train together in Canton, Neens, and we’re friends. He’s a fun guy, we hang out, we—” he trails off, turning a little red, and she opens her mouth to ask him what he means by that, but he cuts her off, “we’re not enemies, Neens. We just both want to win. It’s understandable.”

It is. She knows that Howie is friendly, sweet and affable with a heart of a golden retriever. She’s not the biggest fan of Lily, the tiny blonde who stares her down with the iciest blue eyes one has ever seen, but her partner is the absolute sweetest. It makes sense that Ricky is friends with him, except for the fact that Jenn pins them against each other every second she gets. The relationship between her and Lily soured because of it, but perhaps Ricky and Howie remain unaffected.

“Yeah,” she concedes, and there’s nothing that really could be said after that, so she spends the rest of the drive staring out the window, admiring Vancouver before the cab comes to a stop.

While Ricky pays the cab driver, despite Nini’s vehement insistence that they split the fare fifty-fifty, the driver turns to them with a smile. He’s aging, about Lola’s age with a gap-tooth smile and greying hair. “You two remind me of my wife and I,” he says with a kind twinkle in his eye. “How long have you been together for?”

“Um,” she sputters, turning to Ricky in a wide-eye panic, “we’re—”

Ricky cuts her off with a charming smile. “We’re not dating sir, just friends.” A punch to her stomach. “She’s like my little sister, we’ve been skating partners for about thirteen years now.” A brick on her lungs. “Thank you though, this is a great compliment, because we do need to convince the world that we’re in love starting Friday.”

 _I don’t have to pretend that I’m in love with you,_ she thinks. _I do, Ricky. I love you._

“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” the man apologizes, looking sincerely sorry. Nini doesn’t want any of this, just wanting to be alone and, oh, she doesn’t know, curl up into a ball on her bed back at home, with Ricky’s stupid snow globe spinning ‘round and ‘round beside her. “Wait, you’re the Canadian ice dance team, right? Salazar/Bowen? My granddaughter is a huge fan, she watches all of your performances and wants to be a skater like you, miss, one day. Is it okay if I get an autograph from you two?”

She manages a smile, rummaging through her pockets for a pen and only producing a pink gel pen. The man gives her a sheet of paper. _Keep working hard and loving the sport, and you’re going to be amazing!_ she writes in cursive pink, before signing her name and passing the paper off to Ricky. She doesn’t see what he writes, but she can make out the words _amazing partner_ and nothing more. 

There’s an itch there, a want to know what he wrote, but he smiles and hands the paper to the old man. Later, much much later, she’d get the courage to ask him about what he wrote, but now, it’s a mystery that disappears into the man’s hands.

“Thank you so much,” the man gushes, folding the paper up gently and placing it into his pocket. “Good luck you two! You gotta know that the entire country is behind you!”

She echoes her thanks after Ricky, before heading to the Pacific Coliseum and finding their seats. It’s nice, having people that believe in them other than their families and selves. But at the same time, the struggle against the current, the need to keep swimming and pushing and kicking because if you stop for one moment, one millisecond, you get dragged back into the trenches of the unknown, only gets hundreds of pounds just dumped on her. 

She doesn’t know how much longer she can keep swimming before the tide pulls her back. Just a little longer. Keep going, if only for a little longer.

Skaters start going on the ice for warmups, and she can see Gina and EJ practice a jump. They’re on the ice now with the first Chinese pair—projected with a 6-to-1 chance of winning—and the Russian pair—the favored winners, because they’ve always had an advantage when it comes to figure skating. Gina and EJ, she checks, is favored with a 4-to-1 chance, but she knows better than anyone that odds don’t guarantee anything. She and Ricky had a 5-to-1 chance of making it to Turin 4 years ago, and they still missed it. Things can only be theorized, not guaranteed.

“When are they going again?” she asks Ricky, who has been furrowing his eyebrows while looking down at his phone. Started, he looks up, and she sighs, repeating the question. 

“They’re going up in a few minutes,” he replies, eyes flitting distractedly across the rink. He doesn’t say much after that.

 _What’s wrong?_ she wants to ask. _What’s on your mind? Why don’t you talk to me anymore?_

Like always, though, she bites her tongue, and when Gina and EJ go onto the ice, she stands up and cheers with him beside her. 

“Our first competitors,” the announcer starts, “représentant du Canada—representing Canada—are Gina Porter and EJ Caswell.”

Gina, looking as beautiful as always in a dark sequined dress and curly hair pulled up into an impossibly smooth bun. There’s a smile on her face, one less genuine than she’s seen on her best friend’s face, but colder, icier, _determined._ EJ is beside her, looking less like the goofy guy who always made bad jokes and snuck in beer after practice, and more like a pastor in a church—serious, strict, but like Gina, _determined._

And then the music starts, and their faces snap into smiles as the beat carries on throughout the rink. They start skating, Gina crossing over before sliding under EJ’s arm, and then they’re off, gliding across the ice, a slight scrape of their blades as they start a triple lutz. 

She always liked watching Gina and EJ skate. It’s not like ice dancing or ballet—their moves aren’t about grace and flow and the overall _feel_ of a dance, but all power. When they started their lutz, it was power. When they smiled at the crowd, it was determination. When EJ threw Gina up in the air as she spun, only to catch her perfectly in his arms, it was strength.

If ice dancing is grace, a story, a fable, then pair skating is the major leagues. It’s all raw power and measured movements, not little steps but huge strides, and it’s evident with the end of their performance, when Gina bends halfway over and EJ spins her around and around, not a snow globe but _stronger._ She’s up on her feet after that, cheering and screaming and waving her arms up in the air because _they did it,_ and deserve it more than anything.

She can feel Ricky’s arm wrap her into a hug, and a kiss press to the nape of her neck, and her heart is just so _full right now_ —because Gina and EJ are some of her favourite people in the world and they might win the _Olympics_ at home. She turns around, squeezing her arms around Ricky and pressing her face into the junction where he neck and shoulder meet, just standing there, because _holy shit._

“That was amazing, wasn’t it kiddo?” he says, breath hot on her ear, and she can’t even find the words to say anything back so she just nods wildly. They’re not allowed to see Gina and EJ until after the end of the competition, so they sit together, laughing at each other’s stupid jokes and taking note of how the Russians and Chinese do as well.

She runs down after it’s over, Ricky hot on her heels as she goes to the change rooms after flashing her pass. Gina is there with EJ and Jenn, who all look _ecstatic_ and why wouldn’t they? “You guys!” she exclaims, and it’s only a few seconds before the four of them—Gina, EJ, Ricky, and Nini—get tangled in a group hug with flailing limbs and ever-racing hearts.

“I can’t believe that happened still,” Gina breathes out after they manage to untangle themselves. “That’s our best score of the season, and we’re leading by _half a point at the Olympics_ , I—”

“You deserve it so, so much,” Nini cuts her off, pulling Gina into another hug. “I’m just so _proud_ of you guys.”

EJ, who looked more aware than ever, asks with large eyes and a huge grin, “Want to get drinks to celebrate?”

“Hell yeah,” Ricky replies, before receiving a disapproving shake from Jenn, who quickly changes his answer, “actually, you guys still have the free program tomorrow. Maybe a celebratory small dinner with lots of vegetables, huh?”

Jenn nods with a tight smile, before sweeping out of the room with a phone in hand. Nini opens her mouth to say something, but there’s a quiet knock on the door. 

“Reagan?” Ricky exclaims, eyes wide before strolling over and greeting his _girlfriend_ —ugh—with a kiss. “What are you doing here?’

The other woman smiles, always with that _fake_ smile that only Nini seems to see and no one else. “It’s Valentine’s Day, silly.”

“Oh it is? Sorry, I forgot.” Her heart, pure and clear and shiny and glass, is dropped from his hands, scattering all over the floor of the dressing room, and she doesn’t know where to look but at the shards of what remained. She’s a good actress, hardened and perfected from years of ballet training and ice dance practice, so she thinks that she maintains a poker face well as Reagan’s dark eyes pass her in a dismissive glance. 

Nini Salazar-Roberts has worked to be the best partner for Ricky Bowen. It’s not her place to speak out about his relationship. It’s not. _It’s not._

“I was thinking we could go into town and grab a bite at this place I heard about from the ladies’ team? To celebrate?” 

He shakes his head. “I was going to celebrate Gina and EJ with them and Neens today. You could come though, I’m sure they don’t mind.” He searches the room, and she watches EJ jerkily nod, as well as Gina, who smiles back, just as cold as the chill of the ice. His eyes meet hers, and she finds herself nodding slowly, because it’s not like she can say _no_ , she’s hoping that it could be like old times again. 

“But _Ricky_ —” she whines, clutching onto his arm, and Nini almost snorts, before biting her lip, _hard,_ to stop it, “—it’s _Valentine’s Day_. We’ve been dating for a month now, don’t you think we should do something? Alone? In the Olympic city?”

“Reagan, I—”

“Yeah, it’s fine Rick. Hang out with your girl. Tomorrow,” EJ cuts off, smiling at Regan tightly. 

Ricky looks hesitant. “You sure?” 

“Totally,” EJ replies. “Go, it’s fine.”

“Thanks, guys,” Ricky says, taking Reagan’s hand, who blinks innocently at them as her boyfriend continues, “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? And Gi, EJ, if I don’t see you before your free program, good luck. You guys are absolutely fantastic and I’ve seen you kill it every single time. You’ll be great.”

Gina nods, smiling at him, and when Ricky and his _girlfriend_ are out of sight, pulls Nini into a hug. “I’m sorry, men suck.”

“I don’t know what you mean, this was celebrating you and EJ,” Nini says. “I’m upset that he’s not celebrating you guys.”

Her friend shakes her head, dark eyes looking kindly at her. “You’re in love with him.” It’s not a question, but a statement. “You have been since at least the Championships, maybe longer. And he’s just putting you aside like you mean nothing to him.”

“Gina—”

“No, Neens, I know I’m right. And I’m sorry he doesn’t. You deserve love more than anyone else.” She loops her arms through Nini, and EJ follows, rubbing Nini’s hair and messing it from her perfect ponytail in his big brotherly way. “But let’s not get wasted and have fun tonight, okay? We have an Olympics to win tomorrow.”

And she smiles, because she doesn’t need a big romance to be complete. She has her friends, her family, and the Olympics looming over her shoulders, and a stupid guy can’t take that all away from her.

Even if that stupid guy is Ricky.

* * *

“How does it get better?”

There’s a stroke of her hair, a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I don’t know. But it will.”

And for the first time, she can’t find it in her heart to agree with Lola.

* * *

Gina and EJ end up taking home the silver after the Chinese pull ahead with a stunning, world record setting free dance. 

Nini’s there, holding her friends tight as Ricky steams on the results of the pair skating event, but there’s no denying it: the Chinese were better.

“What are you going to do?” Ricky asks them, as Gina dries up tears and EJ blankly stares at the glimmering silver medal on his lap. Nini glares at him, because now is _not the time_ , but he presses forward, eyes angry but blazingly determined.

And EJ, strong and kind and hardworking EJ, who never was _really_ the most serious of the bunch, with tightlaced Nini, undaunted Gina, and unfazed Ricky, looks up from the aching mnemonic that lays in his lap, and states, “We keep working.”

* * *

Then, it’s _now_ , it’s Friday, February 19th, 2010, and Nini’s nerves couldn’t be higher. The ice, for all the times she’s been there before to not only cheer on Team Canada and Gi and EJ, but also to practice for the event leading _up_ to today, seems larger. It’s white, with the Olympic logos printed in it and slowly becoming marked with the blades of those who would all strive for a place on the podium. 

As per tradition, she spent last night pacing back and forth, losing precious sleep. She hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep before a performance ever, and she doesn’t think it’s going to change, even _if_ they get Olympic gold. 

_If._ So much hangs on the balance, a precarious little thing that keeps tipping and shifting and bending and wobbling, really not on any set path and not strong enough to keep itself afloat. There’s only so much NIni and Ricky can do, but damn, they’re going to do the best they can. They’re at home. They’re going to make Canada proud.

Mint mingles on her tongue from the breath mint she took after throwing up yet again before coming to the rink. She’s sewn into her dress, red to represent the fire of the tango, which is the compulsory dance for this season. The Olympics have gone underway, and she and Ricky are slated to go last.

Ricky is bouncing beside her, wringing his hands and balancing on his toe picks. He’s nervous—it’s understandable—and calm and cool Ricky Bowen _does_ get nervous for large-scale competitions such as the Olympics, but it’s still unnerving to see him just as terrified as she. The eyes of the globe are on them, and there’s not much she can do but watch. 

Lily and Howie rank first in the compulsory dance, all sharp movements and precision, and their score is _fine_ —no, it’s great, higher than _Nini and Ricky’s_ highest score all season—but they’re quickly overtaken by the Russians, who beat them by 2 points. Their dance is larger, covering most of the ice, and Nini’s heart is beating so fast that she doesn’t know if she could calm down.

But then, _then_ it’s their turn, and even before they’re on the ice, there are screams from the crowd. _“Ricky! Nini We love you!”_ she can hear from the crowd, and Ricky takes her hand, squeezing it once, twice, and looks down at her with the largest smile on his face.

“We can do it, Nina Ballerina,” he says, moving her hand up and down in his, emphasizing his point. “We’ve got this, alright? We know we’re good, we know we’re going to kill it.”

She squeezes it once, twice, three times, and beams back, keeping her eyes on him and his on her as they make their way around the rink. The roars of the crowd and the comments from the announcer don’t even register as she looks at him, and him at her, and everything just seems _right_.

When they get into their starting position, her hand in his, his other on her waist, and the opening beats of the music play dramatically, it starts.

Their dance is sharp lines and precise. Smooth glides, even lines, and the quick moves of a tango are made as their skates scrape across the ice that is marked now, because of the 20 or so partners that have also clawed their way to the top and want it just as bad as they do. She doesn’t even register the stop, just looking at Ricky and getting lost in the dance, until it’s over and the crowd is on their feet, _roaring_ and _clapping_ and _cheering_ because this is _home_ , the ice is home, and it’s where she belongs. 

Ricky pulls her close as they get off the ice, chest heaving as he murmurs, “Good job,” to her, and Jenn gives her a tight hug. She doesn’t even know how she got to the Kiss and Cry, but she’s there, sitting with Ricky, Jenn, and Zach, with Ricky’s arms around her. It doesn’t feel right to not do anything, so she blows a couple of kisses at the camera, smiling and waving because that’s what skaters on the T.V. have done all the time, and holy shit, she’s one of them now.

“That was fun,” Ricky says as she states, “That was good,” and she doesn’t manage to say anything else until the commentator comes in, cheers following closely.

“Beautiful, just beautiful,” Jenn says as they look at their skate on the screen ahead of them. “Look at you. Just beautiful.”

And then the scores come.

 _42.74._ 1.02 points behind the Russians.

She can hear a slow clap from Zach, Ricky’s shoulders slump slightly, and she knows it’s good—a new season’s best, second place right now—but _still_. They’re in it to win. There are screams from the crowd, jubilant and joyous, as she manages a smile, one that hopefully looks real, and nods at the score. 

They’ll just have to be better tomorrow.

* * *

And they do, placing first in the original dance with a season’s best score, pulling ahead to first, and Nini has to lock herself in her room after celebrating, because _how_ can they keep this up.

They have to keep it up.

* * *

Nini Salazar-Roberts throws up twice in the changeroom of the Pacific Coliseum away from the rink before she gets ready to warm up. They’re the last group to do so, as they are the third to last group to go, and she fiddles with the hem of her white dress, waiting for the announcer to call her and Ricky on the ice to perform.

Lily and Howie, who are in second place behind them, performed their free dance two performances ago, and got a season’s best. It’s one point higher than their season’s best, which isn’t daunting at _all_ , but it doesn’t mean they could just sit there and be complacent. It would take a better performance than the Canadian Championships, a better performance than the Grand Prix, and a better performance than every other dance they’ve done in their life, which is daunting and exhilarating and make-your-knees-wobble terrifying. But they have to do it. They’re going to do it. 

Ricky takes her hand and they skate on the ice, in circles and circles and around and around. “Are you nervous?” she asks him, voice shaky and small like they’re seven and nine and Claire told them that they were competing in their first provincial competition. 

“No,” he shakes his head. “I believe in us. I always have.”

She’s sure the grin she gives him is brilliant, maybe large enough for the cameras trained on them for the world to see to catch it, and she vaguely remembers to raise her hands up and around when they’re announced. Ricky’s eyes meet hers one last time as they assume position.

_Are you ready?_

She smiles back. _More than anything._

 _Mahler’s Fifth Symphony_ plays, the gentle beats carrying across the ice, and they start. When she feels Ricky’s hands on her collarbone, she turns, cusping his hands with hers and she steps back. Every push she gives is met with a pull from him and the delicate thrum of the strings from _Malher’s Symphony_ crescendo. With moves from ballet, every step feels familiar. Ghost hands guide her through the steps, wizened hands from her first ballet teacher, the ballerina at the National Ballet School, Miss Claire, Suzanne, Jenn, and then it’s Ricky—it’s always Ricky, staring back at her with the determination and freedom she’s always loved about him. 

The ache doesn’t start until the first lift. She’s dropped into Ricky’s arms and thrust over his shoulders, and ice creeps up her veins, freezing them at every moment. Ice turns to fire from the Phelegton, as Ricky grasps her calves, maneuvering her into a sitting position in his arms. Liquid fire burns through her calves, dissipating the lifeblood in her veins, and it takes all she has not to cry out in pain.

She grits her teeth into a smile as he spins her around in the air, calming her breath by locking eyes with him. His warm eyes anchor her, and she ignores the spasm of her calves as he sets her down. The dismount is smooth, and every step after the dismount is met with shooting pain, lancing and travelling up her shins and settling under her skin with tiny shards of glass. 

Temptation to fall, to give up like she did two years ago in Arctic Edge is insistent, but she’s too far gone and it’s the Olympics, and they’re close to winning _gold,_ and it’s everything she’s been dreaming about since she gave up gliding across shiny hardwood floors to glide across silvery chilling ice. This moment, this _chance_ —she can’t screw it up now even if the worst pain she’s had since her surgery, maybe before that, is pounding on her legs. She can’t do that to herself. She can’t do that to Ricky.

And it’s in that moment, she realizes, that she does love skating. She loves it not because she has to, even if the love for it started in bleeding feet and fading white figure skates, but because of the determination and _want_ she has for it. It’s all she’s wanted, and the closure is everything and nothing as she completes her step sequence with Ricky. Everything they do is in sync. One step, one slide, one beat of their hearts. And it’s fucking amazing.

Adrenaline pumps through her veins as they complete their twizzles, the ancient fight or flight method erasing the pain, erasing the stabbing throbs in her shins, and she almost cries in relief as she dances with Ricky, one heart, one team, one partner, as she fully immerses herself into a girl in love. This girl does not have pain in her legs. This girl is not fighting to be an Olympic Champion. 

The boy spins the girl around on the ice as imaginary flecks of artificial snow falls on the sheet below them. There is no music but the sound of their beating heart to guide them. _One-two, one-two, one-two_ thrums through the spheric glass globe that encases them in their own world as skates turn into pointes. There is no pain in the girl’s calves as she keeps up with the boy, the brilliant and extraordinary boy who looks at her like she hung all the stars in the light speckled sky. 

This girl is in love with a boy, a boy who she would give up everything for, and maybe, she and Nini may not be so different after all.

She lowers into Ricky’s arms, hearts beating faster than Vivaldi’s _Summer_ from _The Four Seasons,_ as the crowd erupts into roars. His cheek is pressed against hers, and all she can hear over the cheers is his breathing. She can feel herself smiling, and maybe he is too, as he whispers in her ear, “That was so good.” 

She pulls herself up after, and after he gets to his feet, he clasps her hands in hers before pulling her into a hug. Her chin rests on his shoulder, arms around each other, embracing like they’re seven and nine and have won their first competition ever, but it’s not just some little provincial ice dance competition in London, Ontario. It’s the Olympics, and they’ve just skated the best they have in their life, and holy shit, maybe they’ll win now. 

Bowing is something routine, but even that feels _different._ Before they finish their last round, she turns to him. Her eyes trace over his jaw, his eyes, the little bead of sweat coming down his forehead, and she smiles despite it all, before the eyes she was memorizing meets hers. 

The adrenaline must have worn off by the time they’re due to get off the ice, because the tell-tale pricks of glass shards dancing in her muscles return. Ricky doesn’t seem to notice anything, popping on the boards to meet Zach in a hug, but Jenn, observant as always, notices her pain with a slight frown. Helping her off it, Jenn pulls her into a hug. “Best skate of your life, sweetheart,” her coach whispers, and Nini smiles despite the pain. The crowd is chanting their name—if they don’t win, if they aren’t placed first, she doesn’t doubt that the biased home crowd would boo the judges. 

She doesn’t even know how she makes it to the Kiss and Cry, but Ricky is saying something she doesn’t catch, and then it’s the scores. “The free dance score please,” the announcer blares on the speaker. “They have earned 110.42 points in the free dance, which is a new season’s best.” Ricky jumps up at the mention of the score, roaring along with the jubilant home crowd who may _finally_ earn an ice dance medal for their country. She already knows what place they’re in, but has to hear it from the announcer’s mouth as she shifts to the edge of her seat. “Nini Salazar-Roberts and Ricky Bowen have a total competition score of 221.57 and are currently in first place.”

Cheers. Screams. The roar of the crowd bows into a crashing crescendo as Ricky pulls her from her seat and into his arms, squeezing her tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter. He kisses her cheeks over and over again, and she pulls away. “Ricky, we won the Olympics!” 

He nods, grin widening as he replies, “Yeah kiddo, we did it,” before grabbing her into a hug and rocking side to side. She doesn’t register when Zach and Jenn join in, but the crowd in the Pacific Coliseum seem to be enjoying themselves, especially as Ricky breaks the hug to pump his fists.

They sit in the victor’s booth beside Howie and Lily, as well as the third place team, the Italians. Howie greets Ricky with a fistbump and Nini with a kiss on the cheek, as well as congratulations, while Lily pulls Nini into a hug and kisses Ricky on the cheek. The Russians, arguably the biggest threat to their current standing skates next, and Nini can’t bring herself to watch as they make their way backstage.

“How did they do?” she asks, taking a sip of Powerade to quell her nerves as she leans against the wall to limit the pressure on her calves.

Ricky looks solemn. “222.01,” he says, “we’re in second.”

She stands straight up, ignoring the pain as her heart drops to the pit of her stomach. Even the solid length of the wall isn’t enough to support her calves, which threaten to collapse in at any moment. “Oh. Good for them.”

There’s a second in between before Ricky cackles and swoops her into a big hug. “They scored 207.64, Nina Ballerina,” he exclaims, his rambunctious laughter travelling throughout the arena, “we won! We won the fucking Olympics!”

“We did?” she asks faintly, before a smile spreads into a grin and turns into laughter, and she giggles with Ricky as he rocks her around in his arms. “We did! Oh my god Ricky we did it!”

He lifts her off her feet, spinning her around. “I can’t believe it,” he says, pressing his forehead to hers. “Nini, it finally came true.” 

She smiles. “It did.”

“Nini, Ricky, over here!” she breaks out of her trance as a reporter bounds over, sighing as Ricky pulls away to answer some questions. They have about twenty minutes until the medal ceremony, so that means that it’s more time for the press.

And it’s okay, because she’s with him. Her life is finally complete.

* * *

_Gold medalists and Olympic Champions, representing Canada, Nini Salazar-Roberts and Ricky Bowen!_

It all seems like a blur as she and Ricky skate onto the ice, met with cheers and roars from the crowd. They bow again, turning and bowing and blowing kisses, and it has to be a dream, it has to be, because she’s dreamed up this moment for over thirteen years and it’s finally happening _now._

As they mount on the podium, the Russians give them hugs, as do Howie and Lily, and she finally knows what it feels like to be an Olympic Champion as she steps on the podium for the world to see. She’s bouncing on it, more excited than ever as Ricky squeezes her shoulders, and she still can’t believe it’s real. Her arm hurts from pinching herself, so it _has_ to be.

The medal feels strange around her neck. It’s heavy, shiny, but seems like it’s meant to be there. Her calves, screaming in pain, do nothing to stop the giddiness that builds in her chest as she stares at the round metallic object. It fits well, and after the cheers and accolades, after the ceremony, Ricky pulls her aside.

“Want to see if they’re real gold?” he asks, eyes sparkling as he flits the medal around his hand. 

She grins, tracing over the engravings. “I mean, it’s a gold medalist’s tradition, isn’t it? We sort of have to now.”

“If my teeth don't indent it, I want a refund,” he jokes. “So we’re doing this? Okay, three, two, one—”

Her teeth sink in the side of the metal, not wanting to ruin the design, and when she releases her hold, there are faint teeth marks on the outer rim of the medal. “Wow,” she exclaims, voice airy from awe, “it’s real.”

“Yeah, it is,” he says, adjusting the medal around his neck and slinging his arm around her shoulders. “I keep pinching myself because I don’t know if this is real or not, but it is. Holy shit Neens, we’re Olympic Champions.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” she replies, jibing his ribs with her elbow playfully. “Love ya, Ricky.”

He kisses her forehead. “Love you, Neens.”

Nini Salazar-Roberts is twenty years old with faded white scars on her calves and a heart made of broken glass. She is an ice dancer with delicate feet cramped into white skates, careful glue keeping her from shattering across the rink. She spent her life trying to be good, then better, then the best, drowning in crashing tides that only tempt her to sink. But now, with a heavy gold metal around her neck and Ricky beside her in the heart of Vancouver, maybe all that uphill swimming was worth it.

And for the first time in her life, the world is enough.

* * *

Partying, cheering, and celebrations ring out for Team Canada as Nini and Ricky’s win registers for the Canadians. It’s the first medal in ice dance ever won by the Canadians, and although not the first gold for Team Canada, it’s still a special moment.

She spends the night partying and dancing amongst teammates and friends, the buzz of her win offsetting the pain from her calves. Gina laughs with an arm around Nini as they scream the chorus to _You Belong With Me_ , the taller girl pressing a kiss on Nini’s lips, drawing wolf whistles from the crowd. The kiss turns into a rather long one, with Nini pulling away and giggling, “Did you slip in tongue?”

Gina rolls her eyes, pecking Nini on the lips one last time before downing another shot 

Her mood doesn’t even tamper when Ricky leaves with Reagan, with EJ patting him on the back and cheers from the rest of the team. Her heart, as fragile and carefully mended as it is, does slightly crack, but the high from her win and the buzz from the shots she took earlier kept it together as well as it could.

As the sun sets in Vancouver, the celebrations only rise.

* * *

“Will you finally rest?” her Lola asks through the silence after the celebrations have ceased for the night. 

She bites her lip, staring out at the Vancouver skyline, drawing circles on her medal. Her legs shift to a more comfortable position to alleviate her calves as she slides them on her bed. “After Worlds,” she replies simply.

“And after that?” her grandmother queries. “You’ve been so tired lately, my Nini. You do not smile as often. You do not laugh. All I want is to see you smile again.”

“Skating makes me smile,” she answers, and it rings true in the air, but still, she can see her grandmother remain unconvinced. “Really, it does. I don’t think I’ve smiled more than I ever did today.”

Through unconvinced with worry simmering in her kind eyes, Lola says nothing. “Lola, I’m taking a break after Worlds, really. My calves—they’ve been hurting again, but I don’t want to worry anyone. I’ll get them looked at and probably see if I need surgery again.”

Lola presses a kiss to her forehead. “Will you be okay?” 

She says nothing to that.

* * *

**_Salazar/Bowen Take Home Gold Following a Stunning World Championships_ **

_TURIN, ITALY -- Following their historic win at the Vancouver 2010 Olympics, becoming the youngest ice dance team to ever take home Olympic gold and the only non-European team, Canadian ice dance duo Salazar/Bowen, consisting of Nini Salazar-Roberts, 20, and Ricky Bowen, 22, take home gold at the World Championships in Italy. With a world-record setting score of 224.43 points, setting ISU records in the original dance and overall score, Salazar/Bowen beat American ice dance duo and training partners Keegan/Ashman by 1.40 points._

_Salazar/Bowen made history together back at home in Canada for the twenty-first Winter Games, as they are the only ice dance duo in history to win gold in their Olympic debut since the event was introduced in 1976. In addition, Salazar-Roberts is the first person of Asian descent to win both titles of Olympic and World Champion._

_The Canadians placed yet another set of titles under their belt with their programs to_ Farrucas _and Mahler’s Fifth Symphony. Coaches Jenn Reinders and Zach Hough did not respond for a comment._

* * *

It’s after their exhibition for Worlds in Italy that she tells Ricky about her decision. He’s on a buzz, having won another gold—this time, World Champions—and she can’t find it in herself to tell him now. He and Reagan broke up two weeks after Vancouver for reasons he won't say, but he’s not exactly _upset_ about it or anything, and yet she still waited to tell him. 

Ricky Bowen, as always, is insufferably unshakeable, while Nini can barely stand on her two feet without support. 

“Hey Ricky,” she starts, voice shaking as she fiddles with the hem of her dress. “Can we talk?”

He looks at her, a big smile on his face. “Yeah, Ballernina? Shoot.”

“Um,” she hesitates, unable to find the right words. His eyes are large, imploring, and searching as he waits, “you know how my calves were hurting before the Olympic season? Back in 2008?”

He nods. “Yeah. I was really worried, Neens.”

“Well,” she clears her throat, “they’ve started hurting again during the Olympics and haven’t stopped. I’m getting surgery in when we get back to Canada”

He blinks. Then blinks again. Nini, unsure about what he’ll say, stares at him, waiting for his answer. “Your calves have been hurting again?” She nods. “Since the Olympics?”

“The free dance,” she clarifies, “but I couldn’t let that get in the way of our win—I couldn’t do that to us, Ricky. You know that.”

His expressions are indecipherable. “No, I understand that. But they’ve been hurting for a month now? And you didn’t tell me?”

“Ricky, I couldn’t just spring it on you. We just won the Olympics, remember? And then I was going to tell you after the Olympics, but then you and Reagan broke up, and then we had to prepare for Worlds. There was really no good time to just _tell_ you.”

He shakes his head. “Nini, you can’t hold it all in. We’re partners, you know? You can’t just keep things from me just because you don’t think _I_ can handle it.”

Frustration is welling up in his voice while anger blooms in her chest, hot and spiky and roaring. “Well, I’m sorry I don’t know that! You never talk to me anymore! Everything is a secret from me; I can’t even ask you about Reagan or what even happened between you two!”

“Some things are private, Nini, you’re not my _girlfriend_. You’re my partner, okay? Those things are not the same. I’m not obligated to tell you _every fucking thing_ that happens in my life.” She recoils, her heart falling from his hands and onto the ground. She can’t even make a move to pick the shards up—they’re far gone, melting and disappearing and spreading, pieces flown out and gone. 

“Yet I’m supposed to tell you about my calves, huh? How are those things different?” Sorrow attempts to replace anger, warring for domination in her mind, and she holds onto the wall as her calves threaten to collapse in on themselves from the lack of blood flowing through their veins. Hands shake as they grasp onto the smooth plaster, attempting to hold on so she doesn't sink onto the ground.

His eyes are hard now—angry and unrelenting. “We’ve been partners for thirteen years, _Nina,_ and for things that affect the both of us—like your _calves_ —should be things we should both know. Personal matters aren’t necessities.”

 _I’ve been in love with you for thirteen years and I mean nothing to you. Does that mean anything to you? Did I_ ever _mean anything to you?_

“I see,” she sucks in a deep breath. “I just wanted to give you a heads up, you know? I’m so sorry that I’m burdening you with this. See you after I recover.”

Ricky is fire—hot, burning, passion, whose anger and madness flare up in explosive bursts. He’s sudden, not subtle, but glaringly obvious. Every word he says is spoken in the madness of the moment, uncalculated and graceless with no true footing on what he’s saying. Anger for him goes as it comes. White hot and blinding, stabbing and painful in the moment, but forgotten in the matter of seconds.

If Ricky is fire, then Nini is ice. Anger does not come and go as quickly and passionately as it does for him, but builds and grows and elongates and distorts, her own feelings an anamorphosis of his own. She wishes she could let go. She wishes she could let it out. She wishes she wasn’t angry all the time, where all she wants to do is _let it all go, let it all out_ , but she can’t. Nini has held Ricky by the seams with tape and glue and braces as she falls apart. His blinding brilliance shatters her, melts her, and evaporates her need to do something for herself. God, she just wants to do _something_ for herself. 

Ricky is quick to forgive. Nini is not.

Her eyes flicker to Ricky’s once more, his own hazel hot, glaring, and with nothing more to say—yet _everything_ on the tip of her tongue—she turns her heels and leaves. Every step feels like she’s walking on the shattered glass of her broken heart.

She doesn’t look back.

* * *

“Did he call?” is the first thing Nini asks after she gets out of surgery on an April morning. Outside, the rain is picking up, splattering on the windows of her hospital room. She can’t feel her legs, the anestesia making her mind fuzzy and groggy. 

Beside her, with Momma D at her side, her mother shakes her head. “No, sorry sweetheart, he didn’t.”

“Oh,” is all she can say, before the painkillers kick back in and steal her to sleep.

* * *

“Did he call?” she asks when she wakes up. It’s been two days since her surgery, and her legs are painted with new scars, horrid angry red lines that dance on her calves. She can’t find it in herself to look at them.

Momma C, smiling and strong, replies regretfully, “No, sorry Neens, no call. He could be busy though—he’s in Canton, remember? Jenn is probably working him extra hard since you’re in surgery.”

“Yeah,” she echoes, staring at the rain outside the window of St. Joseph’s hospital.

* * *

“He’s not going to call, isn’t he,” she states drily five days after her surgery. It’s not a question, merely a statement. The doctors are preparing to discharge her, having kept her under close monitoring for the past five days. Her calves don’t burn the way they do, but still, she can’t find it in herself to look down at them. She can’t. 

Packing up the flowers and the gifts and the cards from multiple well-wishes, Lola looks up from what she’s doing. “You don’t know that, My Nini. Ricky is a very busy man. Surely he’ll call to get updates on how you’re doing. Your mothers have talked to Lynne and Mike already to discuss your condition.”

“But he’s not,” she says flatly, staring at the starch white sheets that dress her hospital bed. “He won’t.”

Lola sighs. “My Nini, no matter what has happened between you two, you have something special. You have been partners for thirteen years and know each other very well. He’s just busy.”

She thinks of her fight with him in Italy, the daggers they spat at each other and the anger she rarely saw in his eyes. She thinks of the poison that grew between them, the wall that emerged to divide them. She thinks about what he said. He’s not _that_ busy.

“Sure,” she says plainly, looking at the multiple cards and flowers and gifts on the table and not seeing a familiar scrawl on any of it, “he’s just busy.”

* * *

He can’t be _that_ busy. She refuses to think that he’s too busy to pick up the phone and say hi.

Her own cell phone taunts her sometimes, sitting on her bedside table and lighting up with different notifications. There’s a lot of well-wishes, _‘how are yous’_ , and even people asking if she would like to attend parties, but for every contact name and photo that pops up on her screen, there is no _Ricardo Boowen_. There are times where she toys with the call button, hovering over his contact photo as she rereads the last texts from him.

She opens his contact on her phone, staring at his photo—eyes and mouth bugged open after trying wasabi by itself in Japan—and hovers over the call button. 

It’s so _easy_ to do it. It’s just one press.

Her fingers shake as she fights the urge to call him, to hear his voice, but she decides against it. She throws the phone on her bed and groans, deciding to take a nap instead. It was a bad idea anyway.

Maybe he just is _that_ busy.

* * *

She’s in her childhood bedroom by herself once again. She isn’t strictly confined to bed rest, but there is an itch of restlessness that resides deep in her core. Momma D and Momma C dote over her tirelessly, bringing her food and drinks, and she can’t help but feel guilty. The food is nice, however. Back in Canton, Nini couldn’t do more than make scrambled eggs and burn toast.

It’s been a little over a month since her surgery and her legs are functioning well, _thank you very much._ She’s scheduled to go back to Canton sometime in July, probably after Canada Day, so ensure that her legs heal properly, but besides that, Nini’s been pretty productive.

She hasn’t seen him in over a month. She hasn’t heard from him since that day in Italy.

From peeps and whispers from her mothers, she knows that he’s doing well. At least he’s alive and functioning, which is all she got from the quiet chatter of her parents, but it would have been nice if he _called_ or something. Ricky forgives as easily as he breathes, and this shouldn’t have been any different. He can’t be _that_ upset, can’t he?

Except today is May 17th, 2010, and she would hope to see him here. It’s her birthday—her 21st, to be exact—and she hopes that even if he’s horribly pissed at her, he’d still show up. She’s having a small party with her moms and the Bowens, and she _knows_ that her parents extended the invitation to Ricky, but she doesn’t hold her breath as time passes by. He hasn’t talked to her in two months. 

Every birthday she’s had since she turned eight years old was the same: Ricky would knock on her door at 9 AM with a big birthday sign—homemade in his very Ricky Bowen way—and flowers. When they were younger, it was just a bouquet of flowers that Ricky probably picked out of the neighbours’ gardens, but as they grew up, it was always a bouquet of pink peonies. She’d spend the way with him and her family, bouncing around Ilderton, and in Canton, they would go to Heritage Park and overlook the city. She’d get a chocolate cake with strawberries on top, her favourite, and spend the rest of the night playing Clue and Pictionary with friends and family.

She doubts it would happen this year. But still, she holds out hope.

It’s too late, she realizes, as the day dies down. It’s almost time for dinner and after calling Gina and EJ, who send her the best and shower her with sorries that they couldn’t make it, she lets go. It’s _fine._ Maybe Turin is the last time Ricky will ever look at her the same. Maybe Turin is the last time they can skate together. Maybe Turin is the last time she’ll ever see Ricky again.

Mike and Lynne come bearing gifts and bottles of wine with no Ricky in sight. Dinnertime is polite chatter, mostly the parents taking up conversation as they sip white win. Nini tries to not play with her food; it’s ungrateful and rude, especially when the Bowens are here to celebrate her birthday, but she can’t help but drift her eyes towards the empty chair across from her. 

“Neens, we’re so sorry Ricky isn’t here. He’s been so _busy_ lately, but we know he wanted to come,” Mike tells her, dark eyes crinkling as he gives her a soft smile. 

_Sure,_ she wants to say. _Sure he did._ But instead, she nods, forcing a smile. “No, I get it. Jenn must be working him pretty hard, right?”

“Honey, he just wants to be his best when you go back, that’s all,” Lynne says, taking Nini’s hand. “He hates missing your birthday, especially one as big as your twenty-first. He sent you this though.”

It’s a hairclip, small and red and gleaming. She thinks it’s a red rose when she first looks at it, but looking closer, it’s a peony dripping crimson. She gives them a small smile. “I’ll tell him I say thanks. Thanks for giving this to me, Mike and Lynne. And for being here. I don’t think I said it yet.”

“Oh Neens,” Lynne kisses the crown of her head, “you don’t need to thank us for being here. You’re practically our daughter. Of course we’ll be here for you.” Adding softly while looking at the pin, Lynne drops her voice into a hush. “He got the pin on the last day before leaving Italy, you know. He wanted to stop by a jewelry store before leaving and returned with this.”

Her smile wavers a little as she can feel her eyes water. She opens her mouth to say something, but a swift knock on the door cuts her off. She gives a quick look to her parents as she races to the door, hope soaring in her chest as she opens the door. Her heart lurches.

“Hey Nini, I just wanted to say happy birthday? I heard from Ricky that today was your twenty-first. That’s pretty cool.” Big Red stands in the doorway, smiling awkwardly as he can see the hope fade from Nini’s eyes. It’s not his fault, she just thought that maybe Ricky would come after all. “Are you okay?” The redhead adds on awkwardly.

She waves it off, schooling the disappointment from her face. “I’m fine, Red. Thanks for coming, I really appreciate it.”

 _Stupid, stupid girl,_ she thinks, _when will you ever learn?_

“Um, also Ricky told me to give you this? Just a little something.” She tries to hide her surprise as Red hands her an envelope and can barely contain a gasp as she opens it. It’s a handmade Ricky Bowen original, with the awkward stars and smiley faces drawn on the cover. One of the smiley faces has _“Happy 21st Neens!”_ written through a speech bubble, and when she opens it, she almost sobs.

 _Dear Ballernina,_ it reads in his ever familiar scrawl. _Happy 21st birthday! Wow, you’re growing up pretty quickly, I still remember the time you turned eight. You would not stop dancing and forced me to dance with you, and we established that I could not be a ballerina pretty quickly. Anyways, I’m sorry that I’m not here right now, but I think I have one more thing for you. Look up._

Her eyes flicker up from the card as she reads the last words and her mouth drops as she sees him standing in the doorway, a bouquet of pink peonies in his hand and a sheepish smile on his face. She can hear gasps behind her from Lynne, but she stares at him, slack jawed, unable to look away. 

He looks good. There are no black circles under his eyes, and he’s dressed better than he usually is, wearing Levis and a _Leafs_ t-shirt with a jacket over it. He looks better than he did in Italy, when she said all those horrible things to each other. 

“Ricky?” her voice comes out as a whisper, unable to believe it. 

He cracks a little side grin. “Hey kiddo.”

She runs into his arms, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her face into his neck. He smells the same, like sandalwood and sea salt, and she can feel tears well up in her eyes as they press into the sleeve of his t-shirt. This has to be a dream. She hasn’t seen him in two months. “You’re here?” she mumbles in his shoulder, not wanting to look up because then he’ll see her _crying,_ and she doesn’t want him to know that he made her cry or worry for the past two months.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he responds from her neck. She’s on her tiptoes, locked in his arms, and she doesn’t want to let go because then he might just _disappear,_ and she won’t know what to do with herself when he does. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t here before.”

“I missed you,” she breathes out, “I thought you hated me.”

He laughs, not pulling away. “I could never hate you.”

A smile builds onto her lips. “I could never hate you as well.”

Ricky forgives as easily as breathing and perfection come to him. He doesn’t hold grudges, he rarely loses his temper, and she loves that about him. She loves the way he smiles, the way he just _loves,_ and she loves the way he can forgive and forget at the shift of the tide. They do need to talk it out, they really do, but right now, all she wants to do is get lost in his arms and enjoy the moment while it lasts.

After all, for how long it takes Nini to forgive, she never forgets.

* * *

**_Olympic Silver Medalists Keegan/Ashman Take Home First Gold at Four Continents; Salazar/Bowen Withdraw_ **

_Following a stunning performance at the Grand Prix Final in December, American ice dance duo Keegan/Ashman kept up their stunning season by taking home gold at the 2011 Four Continents Championships. After placing second to reigning champs Salazar/Bowen, consisting of Olympic Champions Nini Salazar-Roberts and Ricky Bowen, they went ahead to win the free dance after the former dropped out due to unspecified reasons._

_This is Keegan/Ashman’s first gold in a major international event besides the Grand Prix Finals, which they’ve defended since 2009._

**_Americans Take Home First Gold at World Championships_ **

_TOKYO, JAPAN -- Not to outdo their performance at the Four Continents Championships in Taiwan, American ice dance duo Lily Keegan, 23, and Howie Ashman, 23, went on to take the gold medal at the 2011 World Championships. After placing second to former World and Olympic Champions Salazar/Bowen in the short dance, who have been out for the majority of the season due to Salazar-Robert’s injuries, they set a season’s best in the free dance, beating the Canadians and fellow training partners by 3.48 points._

_“Their improvement since the Winter Olympics is absolutely unheard of,” Tanith Litchemen, American ice dance silver medalist at the 2006 Turin Olympics, said in an interview with NBC. “The massive leap they took from being second best in the world to the first is absolutely phenomenal. [Keegan/Ashman] have sharpened up their technical game, and the results are showing.”_

_When asked about the downfall of Salazar/Bowen, Litchemen said, “Well, there’s really no good indicator to say if it’s really a downfall, seeing as they’ve been out of most of the season for Nini’s [Salazar-Roberts] injuries. It could just be a bad season. They didn’t win all of those international titles just through sheer luck.”_

_The 2011 World Championships concluded the 2010-2011 season._

* * *

“Do you really think it’s just a bad season?” Nini asks Ricky after a particularly gruelling session. Jenn has been working them extremely hard after Nini came back from surgery, and she’s been particularly displeased after they dropped out at Four Continents because of Nini’s calves. 

It’s not like she can control her pain. It’s not like she can stop the glass flowing through her lifeblood and cutting her at the knees. God, she wishes she could, she wishes she could take all of her pain away, instead of always leaning for support. She wishes that the two surgeries she’s already done worked, so she doesn’t have to always be the one holding her and Ricky back. She wishes, sometimes, in her room in the dark, that Ricky would realize that she’s holding him back, that she’s the anchor that prevents him from moving forward when all he wants to do is swim.

No matter what she does, how many surgeries they do, the pain just _doesn’t fade._

He shrugs. “It could be. I think so, seeing as how hard it’s been for the both of us.” She bites her lip. “Neens, don’t be worried. A bad season is a bad season. Your health and your well-being will always come first.”

She takes a deep breath, running her eyes along the white scars that paint her calves. They’re not _ugly_ per say, having been surgically done and are certainly not _butchered_ by any means, but they’re not aesthetically pleasing to the eye. Eventually, they’ll fade, but as she studies them, the way they seem to etch their way onto her skin and never wash away, she doubts it.

“Should I get another surgery?” her voice is tiny, small, like she’s nine years old again and she’s trying her hardest to be the best ballerina at the school. 

He looks up at her. “Do you _want_ another surgery?”

“No,” she admits, eyes lingering on the scars that have not yet turned white, that are still angry and red against her tanned skin. “They don’t seem to work. The pain just _doesn’t_ go away, not matter what I do.”

He takes her hand, rubbing his thumb along the back of it in the stupid comforting way that always makes her relax. “Then don’t,” he says, “don’t do it. Do physio instead. Just do what works _best_ for you.”

“Yeah,” she sucks in a breath, memorizing the calluses on his hands as she laces her fingers with his, “I think I’ll do that.”

* * *

**_Salazar/Bowen Claim Second World Title_ **

_After a frankly disappointing 2010-2011 season, Olympic and World Champions Salazar/Bowen rallied to defeat Americans and fellow training partners Keegan/Ashman at the 2012 World Championships in France. This marks their second victory over the Americans since the Four Continents Competition earlier this year, which was the first time they’ve beaten the Americans since the 2010 World Championships._

_Salazar/Bowen stunned in their short dance to a medley of_ Hip Hip Chin _,_ Temptation _,_ _and_ Mujer Latina _, where they set the ISU world record for the short dance and placed first in. They went on to place first in the free dance as well, solidifying their win against Keegan/Ashman._

**_Ouch! Canadians Lose World Championships to Americans in Hometown_ **

_LONDON, ONTARIO -- After losing once more to the Americans at the 2013 Four Continents Championships, the Canadians go on to take the silver medal at the World Championships in their hometown of London, Ontario. Keegan/Ashman, for the second time in their career, have spent the entire season undefeated, while Salazar/Bowen seem to lose their footing on their world status._

_With the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi looming ahead for the following seasons, bets for who will take the title of Olympic Champion have risen in favour for the Americans. While the title of World Champions have shifted and forth between the Canadians and Americans, with the Americans’ solid streak and record-setting programs, it’s unlikely the Canadians could rally enough to defend their title._

* * *

There’s a day where Nini just wants to lie down and quit. Jenn has spent a lot of time perfecting Lily and Howie’s programs, so much so that she’s cut into Nini and Ricky’s _own_ practice time to work with the Americans. The filming crew sent by Lifetime to film a short 7 episode docu-series about Nini and Ricky’s road to Sochi just wrapped up as well, and everything just feels like _too much._

She just wants to sit down and breathe. Sochi is in a month, the Canadian Championships in two weeks, and there really is no time to rest. It’s just pushing and pushing and pushing, every movement forward is met with a wall, one that Nini doesn’t think she has the strength to push against anymore. She’s just _so tired._

“I just don’t think I can do this anymore,” she confesses to Ricky in her apartment while studying their short dance. “I mean… it’s been a long time running. Our skating career, that is. It has to come to an end one day.”

He’s quiet, thoughtful as he sips his green tea. There’s a bowl of Lindt in front of them—hazelnut, her favourite—and she reaches out to get one while trying to gage his reaction. “I agree,” he replies simply.

“Really?” her eyes widen, not expecting that answer. Ricky loves skating the way he loves hockey. He loves dancing as much as he does a good beer on a hot summer day. He’s a good Canadian small town boy, a poster boy for every Canadian child wanting to go to the Olympics. He’s not the one to just _quit._

Maybe she is though. Nini Salazar-Roberts has spent her entire life building herself piece by piece, each glass shard carefully sculpted into someone who is worthy of respect, one who won 1 Olympic, 6 Worlds, and spent 17 years with her best friend and partner. There has to be a moment where they just stop. But she doesn’t want to make him stop unless he wants to.

“Don’t say this because you want to please me,” she adds, fidgeting with the Lindt wrapper. “I’m not one of your girlfriends; I don’t need to hear what I want to hear, but what you want to say.” She takes his hand. “We’re partners.”

He strokes the back of her hand with his thumb soothingly. “I know, Nini, I know.” She watches him as he sighs, running a free hand through his messy hair. “It _has_ been a good run, right? We’ve done some pretty cool stuff together.”

“We won an Olympic together, two World Championships, multiple Canadian Championships, and got to travel the world since we were eleven,” she smiles, thinking of the antics they’ve gone through since travelling for skating. “One more to go.” The smile slips off her face. “Do you think we’ll do it again? Do you think we _can_ do it again?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Jenn has spent a lot of time with Howie and Lily lately. They’ve improved a lot too, and let’s be honest, they’ve been kicking our ass since 2011. But,” he looks in her eyes, “I believe in you—in us—even when no one else will. And I think that we can, Ballernina, I truly do. I think we can do it.”

“And after that?” she quirks a wry half-smile.

He shrugs, breaking their gaze and staring up at the ceiling. “Come what may.”

* * *

“She’s marching with the Americans,” he informs her, a grimace on his face. 

She bites her lip. “New golden children now, right? We expected it.”

“Yeah,” he says, “but she’s been spending more time training them than she has us.”

She adjusts her Team Canada hat, checking her watch. Only an hour before the Opening Ceremony. “You don’t really think—”

“—that she’s favouring Howie and Lily? It’s an obvious conflict of interest, we’re projecting for first and second. It’s just _frustrating._ She shouldn’t be showing favoritism. Nini, we’ve been coaching ourselves for the past few months. You have to know that's not okay.”

Her eyes shift to the Olympic Village below. Canada House didn’t look different from the rest, but the lights speckling the skyline below cause her heart to ache. “One more time,” she reminds him. “Let’s try to have fun, you know? Last Olympics.”

He breathes out. “Yes,” hazel eyes flicker to her, “one more time.”

* * *

“My Nini, please make sure you enjoy yourself. You have just been so tired lately.”

“Don’t worry Lola,” she says, “it will be over soon.”

Her grandmother stands up abruptly, dark eyes widening. “My Nini, what do you mean?”

“We’re done after this,” the words fly out of her mouth. She sounds more bitter than she should. “No more ice dancing competitively. It’s over.”

“Is this really what you want?” her Lola asks.

Nini fiddles with her fingers. “Yes, I think it is.”

“My Nini,” her Lola says, taking her hands with her own wizened ones, “You can do whatever you want. It’s your life. All I ask of you” Nini looks up into her grandmother’s eyes, lined with age but just as kind over time, “is to try to make sure you are happy.”

She nods. There’s nothing more that she can do.

* * *

Four minutes.

Liquid gold tumbes from her hands, spilling and spilling and spilling over the ice. 

Four minutes.

Silver chains wrap around her scarred legs, binding her in her place. They force her to watch.

Four minutes. 

A smile is forced on her lips as she sees the Americans win their first Olympic gold, bathed in light and pure _yellow_ as Howie spins Lily around in his arms, looking happier than all the times they’ve ever won World Championships, Grand Prixs, and Four Continents. 

Four minutes.

It took that long for their end of season, _no,_ end of career sendoff to be shattered. Gone. Erased. For a foolish four minutes after their routine, she thought that she and Ricky did it. Two gold medals to end their seventeen year long career, erased with silver ink blemishing the page.

There’s tension beside her, a long line of just _anger_ —but what is there to be angry about? They lost. They’re not good enough for good. It’s obvious now, really, why Jenn chose to dedicate all of her time to the Americans. It’s there, painted in gold and shining, clear as day. 

Sharp breaths turn from the side of her, and she takes his hand tightly, gripping it harder than she ever has. She can see the cameras turn to them—to the _losers_ —and for a second, she toys with the idea to fume, to be _angry_ , to be a sore loser. But she’s nothing but a professional, and anger does not come blinding hot to her. No, it drips slowly, sparingly, small droplets running off cool ice, and she must keep her own feelings under wraps. Now is not the time to get angry.

Anger is for the villains in the fairytales that always lose to the heroes, the ones written badly about and never redeemed. History is written by the victors, and while she knows their name will still be noted down, it won’t look good on either of them to throw a fit.

“Come on,” she says quietly, pulling his hand towards where they need to go for the medal ceremony. She can feel the heat radiating off him, just waiting to burst. Ricky Bowen does not simmer, he boils. “We need to go.” Almost half-heartedly, she adds, “They earned it.”

He stills, but after she pulls a little more, he relents. It’s not the first time they’ve come second to them. They’re used to it, playing up the friendly competition through being training partners, being pitted up against each other since Vancouver four years ago. It’s nothing unordinary, but still, it feels different.

Silver hangs heavy from her neck, threatening to drag her down. She and Ricky fake smiles, giving Howie and Lily handshakes and smiles, small congratulations, and they wave at the camera. She knows what a silver medal feels like. She’s gotten one earlier this week for the team event, where Canada got silver, but this is different.

Four years of rebuilding, reworking, rebranding all melted and ran down the drain within four minutes. She doesn’t know if she should laugh or cry.

Defending Olympic Champions lose their place to American training partners. That will make the headlines for sure.

 _The Star-Spangled Banner_ blasts in the arena. Nini never wants to hear it again.

* * *

Interviews are booked. Media exposure and coverage of the Olympics is expected for the rest of their time in Sochi. Nini just wants to take a bath and drown in it.

She and Ricky just finished doing press following the medal ceremony, and she’s locked herself in her apartment in Canada House since. Her costume is splayed on the floor, Ricky’s Team Canada sweatshirt she stole a few years ago hanging on her, and she sits in the shower, turns it on, and cries.

Droplets from the overhead shower mix with the salt of her tears, running down her face and soaking her. She wraps her arms around her knees, rocking back and forth on the tiles of the shower. _Pitter patter. Pitter patter. Pitter patter._

Their free dance plays in her mind, each step executed to perfection, each movement done perfectly. She tries to map what went wrong, what happened, how they lost points, but her brain refuses to budge. Did they even lose points? Or did they just not get the ones they gained. A drop of water goes into her eye, and she wipes it, seeing the perfect performance that _didn’t_ win gold.

Already, there are whispers about under the table deals, points not being given where they should, and the Russian-American deal. The Americans get first in ice dance and the Russians win the team event. Those both happened.

But she refuses to dwell on the rumours. She doesn’t want to think about where she’ll go or what she would do if they’re true.

She used to think that her calves were the worst thing to happen to her, that the permanent damage would forever offset her and Ricky’s career until they couldn’t dance anymore. Before that, she thought not going to Turin was the biggest disappointment in her skating career. The desperation that she _drowned_ in after those two moments were what she thought was the lowest in her career, but now…

If she didn’t stop after 2010 for surgery, would something be different? Vancouver was the best moment of her life, still is today, but even with everything they’ve gone through with Sochi, she thought that maybe… maybe they would win again.

A sharp knock cuts her out of her thoughts. Slowly, she drags herself out of the shower and opens the door.

“Ricky?” she says, voice hoarse from all the crying. He takes her in: her dripping hair, running mascara, and small figure being dwarfed in sopping wet sweatpants and his sweater. Slowly, stepping in the puddle that’s already started to form around her, he takes her into his arms, burying his face in her neck.

The silence doesn’t speak, doesn’t scream, doesn’t cry as she’s wrapped into his arms. She sobs into his shoulder, letting the last of her tears out, ugly hiccups filling the dark room as his grip on her waist tightens. He doesn’t say much, stroking her hair with his large hand, and they just stand there.

He pulls his head back, moving a wet strand plastered on her face to behind her ear, letting his fingers linger on her forehead. Her eyes flicker to his lips, but she moves them back up, knowing that it’s not the time for it. The temptation is there, but she doesn’t fall for it. She can’t fall for it.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs, eyes focused on hers. 

She smiles ruefully. “No.”

“Me neither.”

“I don't think you’re going out today, aren’t you?” Gina already tried dragging her to one of the many Canada House parties, but she didn’t budge this time. After a while, her friend gave up. “Gina wanted to, but I just didn’t have the energy to.”

He laughs. “EJ tried getting me out too. He knows what it feels like to get silver, they’ve won silver for the past two Olympics, but still, I just don’t want to.”

“Jenn is probably out with Lily and Howie, calling them her perfect babies like she did with us four years ago,” Nini lets herself be bitter for a moment. “Sorry, I just killed the mood, didn’t I? Ugh, I’m such a buzzkill.”

“No, no it’s fine,” he chuckles, and she savours it for a second, his beautiful laugh on perhaps the worst day of her life. “She probably is.” His voice drops an octave. “Did you hear about the rumours? Neens, they could have—”

“—I don’t want to hear it,” she cuts him off. “I don’t think they’ll change anything, and we’ll both be driving ourselves insane. It’s not worth it.”

His face falls. “They did it for Pelletier and Salé in 2002,” he notes, but she shakes her head. 

“They won’t do it this time.”

“So much for our last performance competitively, huh?” he tries to bring the mood up. “Two silver medals and a points scandal, huh? Our Olympic legacy.”

“Yeah,” she forces a laugh, “at least they’ll have something to remember us by.”

The silence falls upon them again, comfortably this time. “I should go,” Ricky says, “press tomorrow. We need to look like we _didn’t_ cry all night.”

She nods, watching him turn his back. “Wait!” he turns around sharply. “Do you, uh, want to stay? For tonight?”

“Nini, there’s only one bed,” he notes, eyes sparkling, “and it’s a twin.”

She takes a deep breath. “It’s fine,” her heart hammers, “just like all those late night study sessions, right?”

“Sure,” he says as he follows her to the bedroom. She quickly grabs a dry pair of sweats and puts them on in the bathroom, tossing him some sweatpants. She crawls into bed, staying on the left as she turns to face the wall. 

His breath is hot on her shoulder as an arm comes to wrap around her waist, and soon enough, they’re fast asleep.

* * *

After the Olympics, after it all, when Nini is sitting in her new place in London overlooking the city, Lola would come to her. “Are you happy?” she asks Nini quietly as the girl watches the World Championships take place. Lily and Howie just won their third gold. 

“I think I will be,” Nini replies, shutting off the television and making her way to the window. “I think I will.”

“Good,” Lola says, and although Nini can’t see her grandmother, her dark eyes glitter with tears. “That’s all I wish for you.”

* * *

Life is good, relaxed even. Nini finishes the degree she was gradually getting over the years at Western University for psychology in May, with Ricky, her moms, and Lola all by her side. She and Ricky have been keeping in touch, still seeing each other every day to train for Stars on Ice. Her worst fears about only seeing each other when skating, when they were in an orbit faded, and she finds herself smiling more and more everyday.

She trains and teaches younger kids how to skate at Ilderton Rink with him on Sundays, Taylor Swift and Hall and Oates blaring in the speakers as she sees the next generation learn to love the sport she’s dedicated over seventeen years to.

Laughter comes quicker to her as she learns to let go. Howie and Lily have retired as well, and Nini finds herself talking to the pair more and more. She and Ricky don’t travel to Canton though—that’s something she refuses to do. 

The last few years felt like she was pushing against invisible forces hellbent on keeping her back and knocking her down. The wind was ferocious, unrelenting in trying to make her fall and get pulled back with no chance for relief. Every breath felt like a gasp for air, a necessity that she was deprived of because there was no choice but to keep going, to keep moving, to keep being perfect.

The world kept spinning, but Nini was stuck in stasis.

Now, every moment feels like a step forward. There is no resistance anymore, just open air that she can jump and twirl in, casually or formally or however the hell she wants it. She meets Gina for coffee every Tuesday to catch up, and it’s nice. She misses normalcy.

There are some times she passes through the foyer of her house and sees the dancers in her snow globe. Dust does not collect on it, as Nini keeps a conscious effort to make it look as good as the first time it showed up on her nightstand in the Diamandises from all those years ago. The ice dancers are no longer spinning, stuck in stasis, but she doesn’t feel like she needs to make them move anymore. She’s happy the way she is now.

That is, until she gets the phone call.

* * *

“I remember all those times during Thanksgiving when I was little, she would show me pictures of her growing up in the Philippines. She would point out the places she would love to visit—there was this specific spot in Manila, a little café in the corner that she would go to as a kid and order ube ice cream in a cup, and she would just have purple cream all over her face in the photo, but smiling wider than anything I knew,” there is a chuckle in the audience.

“She never got to see that spot again after she immigrated to Canada,” her smile drops, “but she would always tell me, _‘My Nini, one day I will take you there and you will finally try real ube ice cream’,_ and I would laugh because _yeah, one day after my life finally calms down._ I actually made a plan for June to surprise her with a trip back to Manila and have her show me all the places she had photos of and showed me every Thanksgiving.” A sob builds up in her throat, but Nini takes a sip of water to try and calm it down. “I guess I can’t do it with her anymore.”

“Lola was always the first person I would talk to when I just needed someone to listen. She was always there for me, even when I was being the absolute _worst_ during my teenage years, and still, even during the stupidest things I’ve done, she listened.” Tears run down her cheeks as Nini dabs them with a tissue. “And she would always tell me the same thing. _‘All I ask of you is to try to make sure you are happy.’_ ” Her eyes meet Ricky’s from across the crowd. He mouths, _you got this._ Her hands shake as she remembers the lengthy conversations with her grandmother, the ones that can’t happen again no matter how hard she wishes for it. “I would always say something dumb about one day, after the _Olympics_ or _Worlds_ or just any bad excuse I could think of, and that’s when I’ll be happy. The sad thing is that I think I was happy.”

She takes a shuddering breath. “The day before Lola died, I was visiting home and it was just her there.”

_“Lola, I missed you! How are you?”_

_“My Nini, I am good, but I am absolutely wonderful now that you are here. I missed you too.”_

“I haven’t seen her in a while, despite all the promises I made after I retired that I would visit.”

_“I’m so sorry that I haven’t come around as often,” Nini says, making Lola some jasmine tea and handing it to her grandmother. “I’ve been meaning to, but things always come up. I must be the worst granddaughter ever.”_

_“No,” Lola says, taking Nini’s hand in her own, “you are not. You are the best star to ever shine in my life.”_

“She looked tired, but I didn’t say anything. I thought that she was just tired, and didn’t get enough sleep from the past night.”

_“You look happier now, My Nini,” Lola notes. “You seem very bright and glowing.”_

_“I am happy now Lola, I know I am for sure.”_

“She didn’t talk much about herself, but just wanted to listen to me. God, I wish I didn’t take the time to talk about what was going on in my life so I could hear one of her stories again, the ones I heard growing up as a kid.”

_“My Nini,” Nini looks up from her tea, “when I am gone, please keep smiling. Please still be happy. That is all I want.”_

_“Lola,” Nini says haltingly, “what do you mean?”_

“She was giving me a sign, but I didn’t see it. It was right there, and I didn’t see it.”

_“Please continue to do what makes you happy.”_

_“I am,” Nini assures her grandmother, “I finally am. And I’ll be here more often to see you, and we can talk about that drama show Momma D says you’ve been watching.”_

“The last thing Lola ever told me is that she loved me, and that all she wanted for me to do is to do what makes me happy. And I wish I told her how much she means—sorry, _meant_ —to me before I left. I just wish—” a sobs chokes her, her slight form shaking, “—I could thank her for everything she’s done for me, everything she is— _was._ And how I love her more than anything, no matter how awful I am.”

“Malou Salazar lived a beautiful life, bringing light and a feeling of peace to everyone who had the pleasure of meeting her. She will always be the best person I know, and is forever the best grandmother anyone could ever have. Lola, I love you so, so much. Thank you for everything you’ve done, for everything you are, for your patience, your kindness, and your infinite wisdom. Thank you for sharing it, even when it wasn’t deserved. I—” she chokes up, “I love you.”

_“Nina Amalia Salazar-Roberts, I love you more than all the stars in the galaxy. You are the most important and beautiful thing in my long life, and I am forever grateful that you are my granddaughter. My only want is for you to do what makes you happy. Seeing you happy will make me rest peacefully.”_

* * *

After the funeral and the ceremony, Nini finds herself in Lola’s room. The room is tidy, smelling of jasmine and decorated with photos of her family. Nini can see the photos of her Lolo, her mothers, and herself in the frames. She picks one up, memorizing the smile of Lola’s face before a tear drips on it. She wipes it away.

“Nini?” her head turns towards the door, expecting her moms, but instead, it’s Ricky. His tie is undone, hair messy, and he walks to her, wrapping her in a hug. She stills, unsure of what to do, but his grip is tighter, and she finds her face resting on his left shoulder, quiet tears soaking it. “Oh, Nina Ballerina.”

She doesn’t say anything, the photos taunting her as she retreats into the safety of his arms. She feels like a small child clinging onto a lifeline, for without it she would surely drown, being pulled under the waves to never re-emerge. She clings onto him now, her lifeline, her _life_ , ignoring the outside world to immerse herself in her grief. 

He holds her as if she were a porcelain doll, almost afraid to hold her too tight in the fear that she would shatter. In response, she grips him tighter, almost vicious in an attempt to feel anything other than the grief that threatened to tear her apart. 

The silence doesn’t speak, but Lola’s voice could be heard in magnifying volumes. 

_Do what makes you happy._

Slowly, she dries her tears, pulling to face Ricky. His eyes are concerned yet red rimmed. Lola’s death didn’t only affect her or her moms. She shows him the photos in Lola’s room, describing each one in incredible detail, trying her hardest to mimic the stories and tone that her own grandmother used when telling them. He’s quiet then, listening to every word she has to say, and by the end, they’re in her childhood bedroom.

Her eyes see a snow globe, one of a ballet dancer, and she thinks of the one sitting on her table from Ricky. The dancer must have been rusted now after sitting on the shelf for decades.

_Do what makes you happy._

“Ricky,” she says slowly, “let’s try again for the 2018 Olympics?”

“What?” he replies, looking up at her. “Nini, are you sure about this?”

She thinks of Lola’s last words to her, playing over and over again in her head. The man beside her is what makes her happy, and she knows now, that ice dancing makes her happy too. “Yes, I think I am,” her voice shakes a little. “Just no Canton, and definitely no Jenn. I think we can do this.”

“You’re serious,” he remarks, hazel eyes checking over her worriedly. “Nini, don’t feel obligated to do this. I remember how miserable you were earlier in February.”

She nods. “It’s been a year, Ricky,” she says. “I want to do this, but only if you’re in.” Her eyes search his pleadingly, almost desperate as adrenaline pumps through her veins. Hope blooms in her chest as she studies his reaction. 

“Yeah, sure, what the hell, let’s do it,” a small smile makes its way onto his face. “No Jenn, no Canton. Blank slate, starting clean.”

“We got this,” she says, leaning her head on his shoulder as she stares at the rusting ballerina on her shelf. “One last time.”

_Lola, I’m going to do what makes me happy. I love you._

* * *

Ricky texts her three words a day later. _Benjamin and Alice?_

She grins, her answer being sent back in four minutes. _Come what may._

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are not necessary, but they always help writers know what people think about their works and are much appreciated! for updates, check out my twitter [@ataharcot](https://twitter.com/ataharcot).


End file.
